Out of the Darkness
by Phoenixflames12
Summary: Sequel to When Tomorrow Came. After the near death experience of their golden, godlike leader; the remaining Les Amis begin to make a new life for themselves in England whilst trying to wash away the terrors of the barricade. Their lives are changed forever when the English Police hear of their survival. Please feel free to read and review! x (CHAPTER 21 POSTED!)
1. Out of the Darkness

_**A/N: This is a sequel to 'When Tomorrow Came' which has been in my head for absolutly ages, but only now has allowed itself to be written down! Updates may be few and far between at the moment because I have scary public exams in less than a month *minor mental freak out ensues* , but I will try my best to update as regularly as time allows! **_

_**Disclaimer: As I am not male, French, or living in C18th Paris- how can I possibly own Les Miserables? I am simply trying to convey my love for Les Amis de l'ABC into some cohesive structure- please don't sue me! Much love and enjoy x**_

Out of the darkness

'_Hold on Apollo… Please? That's it… Just breathe… That's it... In...Out... In... Out.. I've got you… It's alright… Everything's going to be alright 'Jolras… Just hold on… Please… We need you… Please… Don't leave us… Don't give up on us… We'll get you out of here, I promise... Please don't leave us...' _

The voice is getting fainter as he struggles through the never-ending cavern of darkness that has enfolded him, desperately trying to reach it. Knowing that he has to reach it and yet... Everything hurts. He can't breathe. His lungs scream silent cries for the sweet taste of oxygen, but however hard he tries to force them to work, they continue to compress and he's choking, gasping, dying…

White hot explosions of panicked fear erupt over his shattered self as he struggles, desperately trying to evade the clutching grasp that continues to hold him, rock him as if he is a frightened child, whispered sweet nothings floating through his shattered mind that make no sense. Everything hurts. The icy pain that has enfolded him into a clutching, perverted embrace silently laughs at his struggles; dark eyes glinting menacingly as it watches his shivering shade stagger towards the door of Death… _He's g__gasping for oxygen and yet choking on the sweet, metallic stink of blood as he crawls on knees that can't support his weight…_ Why does it hurt this badly? He doesn't know. The pain that had erupted in his chest in a burst of fiery heat is steadily spreading over his weakly struggling body and there is nothing he can do about it. Nothing. It steadily sucks away at his shattered self until he is nothing but a shivering shell that is clinging to the fraying thread of silver life by a fingertip, watching it slowly slip through clutching, snatching fingers; knowing that it is too late…

Cold. Wet. Soft voices washing over him as he floats through the soft warmth of oblivion. Voices he recognizes but he can't think where or why or when he has heard them before. The soft sensation of coarse wool being pulled over his shivering body as frigid lips softly brush his icy forehead; a blissfully brief kiss that is mixed with the salty ice of pain and fear as capable hands enfold him into a clutching embrace; refusing to let him go. He feels thick, nimble hands that make him think of Grantaire softly caress his face as a voice continues to whisper sweet nothings to him, telling him that everything will be alright. That they are safe. That they are together. _But are they? He needs to know. Needs to make sure that they really are safe; the battered remains of his group of revolutionary dreamers who have stuck stubbornly by his side, regardless of where his prideful dreams for a free France have taken them… His friends… His brothers… Combeferre. Courfeyrac. Feuilly. Gavroche. Grantaire. Marius. Cosette. Adrienne. His Mother. M. Frauchlevent. Joly. Bahorel. Bossuet. Jehan. Eponine Thenardier. Toussaint. He doesn't know and yet he needs to know. It is his duty to know. He needs to lead them… Needs to lead them to cold, clear land of freedom and yet…_

Desperately, he tries to open his eyes, but they feel as if they have been slammed shut by a force he can't quite place. More voices. He feels himself sink into the unknown comforting bulk of whoever is holding him, finally allowing his shattered muscles to give way as his body slumps, his head rolling into the comforting crevice of a shoulder bone as he tries to do what they want. The pain in his chest has receded to a dull, throbbing ache; an ache which is slowly spreading its' way over his shattered self, refusing to let him out of its clutching embrace. The soft stink of rain rises to his nostrils as he feels the slight pressure of thick fingers pressing onto his neck, searching for the faint throbbing iambs of a pulse. His head lolls painfully into the weight leaning over him as if his neck cannot support his weight. '_Just breathe for me Enjolras. Everything's going to be alright. We're alright. We're safe now. It's alright. I've got you…' _

The voice continues to wash over him, numbing the fiery bursts of pain that are steadily coursing through his shattered body; pain that is slowly sapping the last vestiges of strength that he clings to; leaving him nothing more than a weakened shell of his former self. He feels hands on his face; thick, capable hands with nimble fingers slowly brushing his mop of wet, blood caked hair out of his eyes. Trembling, salty lips brush themselves against his icy forehead as he shivers convulsively against the unknown body. _It is cold. So cold. Why is it so cold? He doesn't know _The comforting pressure of a hand silently slipping into his own as fingers curl in silent invitation. He squeezes back with as much strength as he can muster, knowing that it is not enough. The sound of hushed footsteps, bodies rising, voices washing over him as he feels himself being scooped up into a clutching embrace; feels a trembling finger trace the line of his cheek as something coarse and warm is dragged over his shivering frame. Feels his head slip softly into the crook of an unknown elbow as capable hands clutch him to a hard, dependable chest as words continue to wash over him. Words that don't make any sense as he feels himself slipping back into the blissfully comforting darkness of oblivion; unable to fight it any longer, unable to hold on as the fight that has consumed him for so long slowly ebbs away; leaving him weak and cold and stranded on the beach of this strange new reality.

The creak of a door being opened. The musty smell of sweat and antique leather mixed with the salty sweetness of tears and metallic stench of blood as he feels two fingers press down for a pulse and a sigh of heady relief as it throbs through shaking skin, stubbornly reminding them that he is still with them; that Fate has not considered it part of her perverse duty to carry him back to the angels. Snatches of conversation as he feels the jolting, sickening rhythm of wheels slowly speeding them away from the danger, the pain, the memories… The soft, warm weight of a body pressing itself up against his own as a head thrusts itself under his chin and a small hand clasps his own, desperately trying to ignite the flickering flames of life into the icy digits. The slight pressure of a hand being placed on his good shoulder, steadying fingers digging into the thin cotton of his jacket. A blissfully brief kiss sweeping his cheek as an ice cold palm reaches up to feel his forehead. A kiss that tastes of lavender soap, of honey, of deep pools the colour of clear water, a laughing smile… '_Maman?' _The word rises to his lips, a soft kiss of a word; but falls; cut short by a useless, lolling tongue lying dormant in a barren mouth still thick with fear as he finally allows himself to fall into her comforting weight. His fears are silenced by another kiss; a hand reaching up to caress his cheek as he feels his head loll against her bosom, the faint throbbing iambs of her heart straining through her chest sending him to sleep quicker than any lullaby as her fingers entwine themselves in his mop of golden curls, softly detangling the mop of dried blood and shit with as much care and devotion as a mother bear grooming a wayward cub.

He jerks unconsciously away from her touch as the light fingers hit his tender scalp, his sleeping brain suddenly full of thick hands, silver knives and blinding, excruciating pain as he struggles away from her clutching embrace; knowing what will come next. He feels a hand on his other shoulder as another presence moves slowly through the shadows of his broken mind, a presence that smells of ink and wet leather as the calloused fingers tighten instinctively on his shaking shoulder. '_Easy Enjolras. It's alright. We're safe; it's going to be alright. We've got you Mon Ami. It's alright. I've got you. I'm here mon petit, it's alright'. _A whispered apology, a blissfully brief kiss and he is safe again; slumped against his Mothers' chest as Combeferre continues to hold his shoulder murmuring a string nonsensical verses and epithets through the heady silence; words that make little sense as the fiacre continues on its jolting, rumbling way towards their unknown Promised Land of safety and he is softly transported back to the blissful blackness of oblivion; safe in the knowledge that they are with him; that they haven't left him and that for now, at least they are alive.

_**A/N: Please feel free to read and review! Suggestions, comments, constructive criticisms etc are like chocolate to my brain, especially at the moment so you know... if you want to hear more from me *hint!* Much love and enjoy! x**_


	2. A Light in the Dark

_**A/N: The second instalment of 'Out of the Darkness' is officially here! This is for all the wonderful people who have favourited and followed this story as well as Sarahbob who has the honour of giving my baby its' first review- thank you, you are all amazing and you have no idea how much it means to me to think that my work is appreciated! **_

_**Disclaimer: As I am not Male, French or living in C18th Paris- how can I possibly own Les Miserables? Please don't sue me- I am simply trying to convey my love for Les Amis de l'ABC into something cohesive! Much love and enjoy x**_

A Light in the Dark

_The world returns in pieces. The weight of the cotton sling that caresses his whole left side, resting like a dead weight against his chest. Soft voices washing over his shattered mind, slowly bringing him back to this strange, new reality. Pressure in his palm, fingers grasping, falling through skin still warm from another's touch as a body rises. Soft, nimble hands softly brushing a stray lock of hair out of his eyes as lips brush his forehead and hands caress him, reassuring him that everything is alright. The impatient snorting stamp of the horses and the sound of unknown footsteps hurrying over gravel as the fiacre door is pulled open to reveal a cold, wet night studded with silver stars. His head swims painfully as the cold wet night air swirls through the open door and enfolds the sticky stench of icy anxiety, painful fear and heady body odour in a swirling, frigid embrace. Unknown voices wash over him, voices that are tight with concerned worry as he struggles to wake up. Everything hurts. He feels hands on his shoulders, his neck, his back as an unknown presence slowly gathers his useless, exhausted body into their arms; whispering a stream of nonsensical epithets as he leans into the waiting security of an elbow; slowly rocked back to unconsciousness by the steady throbbing iambs of a heart straining through a cotton shirt. 'Ferre? 'Ferre...I…' The name scrapes painfully against his tongue as he feels the body slowly manoeuvres itself and its precious cargo down the fiacre steps and into the night, a name that falls and dies as the flickering lights fall away and he is once again in darkness._

'Ssh Enjolras', the voice continues to whisper as the steps fall away on the crunching mass of gravel and into the cold, wet night. 'Ssh, it's alright. I'm here, I've got you'. An ice-cold hand lying palm down against a burning forehead as the faint shadow of a lamp bobs in and out of his shattered vision. Voices. An unknown hand grips his shoulder, trying pull him away from Combeferre's clutching embrace, but he buries his head further into his best friend's chest; biting back the sudden, icy fear that is threatening to overwhelm him; refusing to let go. He can't let go, not now. More voices. Unknown vowel sounds jar painfully on his ear as he hears a woman's voice; a bright swallow dancing through the confusion; the flute like notes dancing through his exhausted brain as he feels Combeferre stiffen, the hands tighten instinctively on his slumped shoulders as he cradles him to his chest as the voice dances closer through the sticky heat of fearful anticipation. A voice that sounds vaguely familiar… _But no… They couldn't be… Why… _

A voice that makes him think of long, languid summer days spent romping through the orchards in shirt sleeves following a twinkling laughing smile as she ran barefoot; her hair fanned out behind her in a mane of golden brilliance as she spun him round and round, her eyes shining with the golden light of childhood innocence. _A final, graceful Minuet as they dipped in and out of the steps like silver dreams, revelling in their escape as she pulls him towards the grass; silver tears of laughter brimming out of eyes the colour of cool water, her cheeks with their dimples flushed with happiness… _A cold, shaking hand stroking his cheek; brushing a stray lock of hair out of his eyes as fingers clutch at his own, desperately trying to rekindle the flickering flame of life. He squeezes back with all the strength that his shattered body can muster, his limp fingers falling as the fight slowly ebbs away. Whispered words; a name floating through the dark corners of his shattered mind; floating, falling as he feels himself slowly succumb to the blissful blackness of oblivion, the sparkling syllables dying on icy, bloody lips… _Henriette… 'Riette… _

The sound of hurried, anxious footsteps on the stairs and sharp, soft vowel sounds pierce his tender ears as he feels another hand slowly reach for a pulse; fingers dancing over the taught tendons of his neck as the faint whiff of alcohol tickles his nostrils. _Grantaire. _The fingers shake slightly as they softly brush his lips as a shiver snakes down his spine and he feels himself slump into Combeferre's waiting embrace as the fingers grope and grasp; desperate for the security of another's touch.

Whispered words mixed with the sound of door being pushed open as a chair is scraped back; the wood groaning slightly as it makes contact with the floorboards. Dimly, he feels himself being lowered down onto something soft and warm; the cotton embracing his broken body as a soft, tear-stained kiss sweeps his forehead. The guttering crackle of a candle flaring into life mixed with the scrape of a shutter bolt being slid into place as a shaking hand grips his own in reassuring friendship. The callouses left from years of leaking ink pens rise to his shivering palm and he inwardly smiles as he imagines Combeferre's wide, dark eyes alive with worry behind the wire framed spectacles as he sits as close to the bed as he dares; refusing to let go of the limp, white, blood stained hand. _The sound of a gutter French accent mixed with soft hints of Polish as a door is slid shut and is answered by a lisping alto voice dancing through the silence. The warm, comforting weight of a skinny ball of fiery life as it scrambles up onto the sinking mattress which groans in protest as quivering lips brush themselves against a marble forehead and stubby fingers tail themselves in golden curls before capable hands softly scoop iaway and all comforting weight is evaporated. A soft kiss to his cheek as he feels himself lean into Courfeyrac's musty, smoky smell; nimble fingers dance over the coverlet smelling faintly of lavender giving his hand a tight, reassuring squeeze before he finally allows himself to be lost to the comforting oblivion of sleep; secure in the __knowledge that they are safe and in time can try to pick up the scattered jigsaw pieces of their lives and start again._

**_A/N: Please feel free to read and review! Questions, comments, suggestions and constructive criticisms are my virtual chocolate at the moment and will keep me motivated through revision so if you want to hear more, keep them coming! Much love and _****_enjoy x_**


	3. Into the Fire

_**A/N: Another chapter for all the wonderful people who have given up their time to read, review, favourite and follow this story! You have no idea how much it means to me to think that my work is appreciated, especially now when exams are horribly close and the only thing that is keeping me sane is writing **_**_fan fiction! You are all incredible and I thank you from the bottom of my heart!_**

**_Disclaimer: As I am not Male, French, or living in C19th Paris, how can I possibly own Les Miserables? I am simply trying to convey my love for our favourite blonde revolutionary into something cohesive- please don't sue me! Much love and enjoy x_**

Into the Fire

_It's cold. So cold. He's standing in the upstairs room of the Café, feeling the trembling gooseflesh jump through the thin cotton of his shirt which is stained scarlet with the sacrifice of a thousand little lives slashed before their time. He can just make out the weight of his broken carbine in his hand; the cold, hard, splintered metal pressing painfully into shaking skin as he forces himself to remain calm. The cloying, sickly stench of death, fear and blood makes him gag as he stands there in the silence; listening to the frantic, juddering iambs of his heart as it strains in a desperate, disjointed rhythm against his chest, waiting. He ignores it. The frantic pumping of the tiny organ means nothing to him now as he waits in the shocked silence; every laboured breath forced through aching lungs seeming to last a lifetime. He can still hear the screaming. The desperate, frantic pleas of the injured and the dying as Fate bundles up yet more insignificant lives to be trimmed and thrown away into the dark nothingness of oblivion before their time. Lives that had rallied so valiantly to his scarlet standard and were now little more than blank faced corpses; remembered only by the cobblestones that soaked up their scarlet sacrifice to Patria. Lives that had thought, had hoped, had dreamed of releasing France from the tyrannical hands of the Bourgeois, but instead were unknowingly lining themselves up outside a blood soaked slaughterhouse, ready to be sliced with as much care as a farmer sheathing a field of wheat at harvest time. Such little, insignificant lives… Bahorel… Bossuet… Éponine Thenardier… Jehan… Joly… Oh my friends, my friends forgive me! It's my fault… All my fault…_

'_Enjolras?' His vision is blurred with a stinging mass of pain and unshed emotion as he blinks up at the voice, a voice that he had last heard shouting a final farewell to the revolution as he knelt on the blood soaked cobbles; a thin, battered body shivering in the icy June dawn, large dark eyes blinded as the bayonet fire consumed him and he was lost forever…. Oh Jehan... I'm sorry... So sorry Mon Ami... 'Vive la France! Vive l'avenir!' Jehan… The baby of his friends… The quiet, softly spoken, Romantic poet with the large honey coloured eyes and a voice that could make angels weep… Such a bitterly tragic life full of such bright, hopeful potential now snapped short by Fate's cruel shears…. Oh God…. _

''_Jolras, what are you doing here?' He can hear the concern tugging at the end of the question as he raises his head painfully to see the thin, pale face of the poet smiling sadly at him from beside the broken window. The honey coloured eyes are huge with concern as he flicks his braid tied with a tattered scrap of dark green ribbon out of his eyes and surveys the fallen God; a faint smile tugging at ice cold lips as he drops to his knees. He can't speak. There are words, there are always words but they seem to be lost in this strange, new reality that does not have the scarlet comfort of his revolution to fall back on. 'You've got to go back. They need you. 'Ferre and 'Feyrac, they need you, Mon Ami. They…' _

_He shakes his head, desperately trying to bite back the sudden, fiery onslaught of emotion that is threatening to overwhelm him because they don't need him. If it hadn't been for his foolish, stupid, childish dreams for a free France then… Then what? He gazes up into Jehan's pale face; trying to silently apologise for all the pain that his dreams have caused him, caused them; knowing all too well that it will not be enough. Nothing will ever be enough because nothing will ever bring them back. Never again will he be able to hear Bahorel's deep infectious laugh rumbling through the packed café as he swings a grinning Gavroche onto his shoulders before piggybacking the gamin to a table crowded with used ink bottles, charts and maps to relay the latest news from the slums of Saint Michel. Never again will he be able to listen to Bossuet's philosophical debates on the meaning of luck whilst beating Courfeyrac at dominos, or listen to Joly whispering in a frantic undertone to a forever patient Combeferre about the dangers of picking scabs too early. Never again will he able to see Éponine Thenardier's large pleading eyes gazing after Marius in wistful adoration as the lovesick Bonapartist disappeared into the night for the umpteenth time. Never again will he be surrounded by such bright, eager minds; hearts straining to ignite the flickering flames of change into the raging inferno dreamt up by Saint Just and Robespierre; an inferno that had been little more than a spark that had flickered and died before it had had a chance to ignite and live… _

'_Why?' His voice seems weak and white, falling through nothingness as he gazes up into Jehan's face which to his horror is slowly fading into the darkness; the bright, honey coloured eyes slowly dimming into nothingness, until only the voice remains; a silver, whispered thread that he clings to with all his might, knowing all too well that it too will soon be snatched from his trembling grasp. No Jehan… Don't leave me… Please… Please don't leave me... From outside the door he can hear the harsh crash of boots on broken wood and the resounding click of safety catches being sprung as a weight is forced against splintered wood. This is the end… _

_From his corner, Jehan is smiling sadly at him as the body slowly fades away into oblivion and he is suddenly alone, clutching the remnants of a broken carbine as he stumbles back towards the window, his whole being drenched in the sickly, icy tang of fear. It is over. Time stands still. He watches through pain filled eyes as the guard line up at the opposite wall; pale faces shrouded by the shadows of their helmets blank of all emotion as he hears the familiar shuffling click of the muskets and knows, deep down his time has come. That Fate will use his card that has been stored so secretively in her deck as she ponders his little, insignificant life, spinning out his thread until the time is right. The weight of his carbine feels oddly alien in his hand; the comforting pressure of the fragmented weapon jarring against blood splattered, icy skin. It slips through numb, sweat soaked fingers and crashes with a deafening finality to the floor, splintering at his feet… He sees a mouth open and words slice through the silence; but they don't make sense…. He feels his hands on his shirt, clutching at cotton that is soaked with blood and sweat; feeling his nails dig painfully into his skin as the cotton gives way; exposing the marble chest soon to be drenched in a weeping sacrifice of shockingly scarlet blood… 'Shoot me'. _

_And from downstairs he can hear the cries of his fallen friends, can feel Courfeyrac's fingers fall away from the pressure of his shoulder as the final strings are snapped and they are little more than blank faced marionettes…. His friends… His brothers… His broken band of revolutionary dreamers… No… No… Sees through bloody eyes a figure stumbling through a drunken haze that is thick with fear and shock; a figure with wide, dark eyes filled with dread understanding as he trips blindly towards the Fallen God, a calloused hand slipping into his own as they face the muskets… 'Do you permit it?' Dionysus's voice cracks slightly as he grips the icy fingers in his own, watching the dark eyes of the National Guardsman as a musket is aimed… Hears a voice ringing through his screaming ears as he waits, clutching at the scarlet, tattered Liberty flag soaked in his final sacrifice to Patria… 'That time will come, citizens, the time of peace, light, and harmony, of joy and life. It will come. And the purpose of our deaths is to hasten its coming'. _

_The words feel alien to his ringing ears; the sound of age old conviction as pale and distant as silver stairs as the dream is shredded to little more than scarlet ribbons blowing in a cold, June dawn…. Such childish, prideful dreams! Such hope, such life only to be snapped short as he lined his soldiers up in the queue for the blood soaked slaughterhouse… He had thought he knew what he was doing… He thought he understood it, thought he could match it… _

_Hears the frantic thumping of his heat, the steady iambs now disjointed as he clings to Grantaire's hand, feeling the blood rush to the base of his knuckles as he raises the flag, feeling the icy smile of satisfaction dance across his lips as he feels Dionysus's warm weight pressing painfully into his side, the thick fingers fumbling in his palm, desperate for the security of another's touch as he sees the blinding flash of light… Feels himself stumble back as the fiery pain consumes the marble statue… Feels Grantaire's hand slip away from his as the flickering thread of life is finally yanked from a scrabbling grasp and hears a scream being wrenched from cold lips as the body falls, nailed to a door by eight shots, golden hair encrusted by a weeping halo of stinking scarlet… Feels the pain being pulled through a barren, bloody mouth as he falls through the darkness of oblivion; jerking, twisting… His whole being consumed by the unforgiving fiery heat as unknown, unwelcome hands bare down upon him, forcing him to comply… He will not comply… He will not allow himself to be lead like a lamb to the slaughterhouse... He can't... He has to lead them... Has to ensure that they at least are safe... His stubborn band of revolutionary dreamers... A final, futile struggle... He feels the darkness before he sees it fully and allows himself to be consumed as a final, blood soaked sacrifice to his beloved Patria and relishes in the knowledge that this is the end. It is over._

**_A/N: Please feel free to read and review! Questions, suggestions, constructive criticisms etc are like chocolate to my brain! I am also going to promise you darling, faithful readers now because I have a funny feeling that you will ask me this: Enjolras IS and I repeat IS going to survive- this is simply a horribly, gothic fever dream that's going to work for a few plot threads later on! Much love and enjoy x_**


	4. Gods in Ruins

_**A/N: Another chapter for all the amazing people who have given up their time to read, review, follow and favourite this story! You have no idea how much it means to me to think that my work is appreciated- you are all fantastic and I thank you from the bottom of my heart! **_

_**Disclaimer: As I am not Male, French or living in C19th Paris- how can I possibly own Les Miserables? Please don't sue me, I am simply trying to convey my love for Les Amis de l'ABC into something cohesive- please don't sue me! Much love and enjoy x**_

Gods in Ruins

The scream is real. It rips through his bloody, barren mouth like a sword through cloth, drenching his whole being in the fiery fire of fever as he struggles through blood soaked darkness; gasping, choking, dying under the extent of unknown pressure. Hard hands continue to grip him into a fierce, unrelenting embrace as he feels the metallic bite of something hard being forced against broken, bloody lips as a fiery, bitter something surges relentlessly down a screaming throat that does not want to swallow. _He can't breathe. Can't see. Can't think. And yet he has to think… He has to lead them… Has to make sure that they at least are safe… His friends… His brothers… His stubborn band of revolutionary dreamers... They need him… He can't fail them… Not now…_ Wave upon wave of white hot fearful panic erupts over his shaking self as his lungs struggle against the ongoing pressure; the unbearable fiery heat that is steadily consuming him spilling out over a marble chest drenched in stinking scarlet. Dimly, he can hear voices crashing over his ringing ears but they don't make any sense as harsh, unknown hands close in on a struggling body thrashing through a straitjacket of sweat soaked cotton as he hears a jarring, barking command and knows that this is the end…

Salty waterfalls of tears drench fever flushed skin as unknown hands continue to hold him, whispering an illogical stream of words and epithets that his shattered mind cannot understand. The only thing that makes any sense is pain. Blinding white, bright amber, blood red pain that enfolds itself over his whole being as he struggles against the clutching embrace that has locked itself around his shuddering chest, thick fingers gripping a sweat soaked shirt as he feels the thin metallic note of a knife being placed blade down across burning skin as he jerks and twists in a futile attempt to evade it. The thin, screaming note of icy metal on burning skin as the knife is pulled forcefully downwards and he is falling, drowning in a lake of stinking scarlet trickling sickingly down an ice cold neck… Fruitlessly fighting the never ending barricade that has enfolded itself around his shattered body, knowing all the while that it is too late and yet hoping, praying…

Scalding tears of painful panic explode in the back of his shattered eyelids as he feels himself gag on something hard and wet that is forced between chattering teeth. A hard, wet something that is drenched with a fiery, bitter taste that he vaguely recognizes as hard hands hold his jaw, forcing himself to bite onto whatever it is as the numbing, fiery bursts of pain continue to course up his shaking body as he struggles against unknown hands, his silent screams suffocated into oblivion. He can't breathe. Why can't he breathe? He doesn't know and the idea terrifies him as he struggles against the bearlike grip that continues to hold him, desperately trying to evade the fever's fiery fingers that have his weakly struggling body in a headlock and refuse to let him go.

_And all around him, he hears the screams. Still hears the frantic, desperate pleas of the injured and the dying as Fate began her perverted rounds along the Barricade; sharpening her shears, ready to snap each fragile, silver thread of life that hung in the heady, June dawn. Still feels the scrabbling, clutching hands slick with scarlet blood that reached out to a world that had been so cruelly ripped away from their weakening, snatching grasp. Still sees the hollow, dark, accusatory eyes dancing behind the so-called safety behind his eyelids as the shadows of his fallen friends silently line themselves up along the blood spattered wall of the Café, silently facing the dark hole of the bayonet chorus._ _No… No… My friends… Mes Amis… Please… No… Please… Forgive me… It's my fault... Joly... Bahorel… Bossuet… Eponine Thenardier… Jehan… Please… It's my fault… I'm sorry… Don't leave me… Don't…_

_But the steady, resounding click of the muskets tears through his screaming brain and they are falling, the flickering flame of five insignificant lives snapped so suddenly that he barely has time to blink before there are hands on his shoulders and he is forced to his knees, his shattered soul screaming silent cries of rage induced grief as hard hands force his arms behind his back and he feels the icy bite of rope being forced around his wrists, digging painfully into tender skin as a musket is aimed and dimly he can hear footsteps thundering through a dying brain and he's crying out to whoever it is; telling them to go back, to save themselves, save the bleeding remains of a failed dream but it is too late as wide dark eyes filled with appalled understanding appear at the top of the stairs… No Grantaire…. Please no…. The rough, warm darkness of a blindfold being tugged over his eyes but he shakes his head forcefully, a flicker of satisfaction dancing through his exhausted body as he feels the unknown hands fly away and he continues to hold the strange sober light flickering in the wide dark eyes of the cynic, silently begging him to run before it is too late, knowing that it is already too late…Knowing that Fate has laid out the cards and is silently surveying the last two lives that are waiting to be dealt their destiny._

He can't breathe. Every ragged, gasping breath seems to choke him as he spirals further into the oppressing blackness of oblivion, his silent screaming pleas suffocated into silence. Dimly, he can feel hands holding him; supporting him as he gasps and chokes against a hard, dependable chest; feeling the hot, metallic stink of blood surge up a burning throat as his shoulders shake convulsively with the effort of releasing the fiery pain that has consumed him. He feels himself loll painfully into the darkness as thick, shaking hands continue to hold him; rocking him back into oblivion as his broken lungs continue to compress under the weight of the pain. Nimble, trembling fingers slip into a sweat soaked palm and curl in silent invitation as he squeezes back; clutching onto the hard, tense digits with all his fragile soul as he feels his body softly lowered back onto cold, wet, sweat soaked softness and a voice choked and broken with silver tears steadily supporting his shattered mind as thick fingers entwine themselves with sweat soaked golden curls and rocks him back with words he can only just distinguish amid the fiery, feverish coughs that continue to throttle him as if he were nothing more than a poppet doll that 'Riette used to play with. _'Don't leave me Apollo… Please don't leave me... I… I can't…' Oh Grantaire… I'm sorry…_

The voice continues to wash over him as a trembling, tear stained kiss brushes a marble forehead drenched with sweat and fiery burning heat as something icy cold is pressed to broken, bitten lips and surges down his burning throat; the blissful, icy relief making him feel suddenly and completely light headed as thick, shaking hands slower lower him back into the soft comforting blackness of oblivion. 'Just sleep Enjolras. It's alright. You're alright. We're alright. I've got you. Hush now…' _Combeferre? 'Ferre, I… I can't… The others... Are... Are they...?_ The feeling of pressure on the bed as the mattress creaks in protest and he feels a hand slip into his own, shaking fingers squeezing at limp digits as the faint creak of a door being pushed open breaks the silence and something icy cold is wrapped around his forehead complete with a soft, blissfully brief kiss as a tear stained face buries itself into his shoulder and sobs without restraint; broken cries of grief muffled by the sweat soaked cotton of his shirt. Somehow, he doesn't know how, he finds the strength to extract his good arm from the bed and wrap it clumsily around the sobbing cynic; drawing the dark haired wine case into a clumsy embrace; relishing in the warmth and security of another's touch.

The faint whisper of alcohol tickles his nostrils as they stay there; clinging to each other like sailors clinging to driftwood amid a storm tossed sea, refusing to even think about letting go. 'Don't… don't… scare me like that 'gain… 'pollo…' The cynics' words come in a choked, broken mass of tear stained syllables as he clings to his golden God, the words barely audible amid the sweaty cotton of his shirt. He doesn't reply, simply pulls him closer; ignoring the fiery bursts of pain that have returned in numbing vengeance as they surge up and down his broken body, ignoring even Courfeyrac's warning, steadying hand on his good shoulder as his eyes flicker shut against the warmth of Grantaire's shoulder blade as the pain explodes in white hot agony through his aching chest. He can't help the wince that flickers through the silence as in an instant two pairs of hands expertly extract him from Grantaire's clutching embrace and softly return his aching head to the warm security of the pillow. Whispered kisses, thick fingers entwining themselves amid a mess of blonde curls and a shaking finger tails itself along his burning cheek as he slumps against the sweaty cotton; his whole being suddenly and completely overcome by exhaustion. _'Ferre? 'Feyrac? I...'_

'Sleep 'Jolras', Combeferre's voice is little more than a choked whisper as he hears the scrape of a chair being dragged across the floorboards and thick nimble fingers entwining themselves in his own, clutching at the flickering flame of life with every ounce of strength they can muster. 'Sleep, please. That'll heal you. Please?' He doesn't think he wants anything other than sleep; a deep, uninterrupted sleep that is not punctuated by vivid, painful, blood soaked memories of the ship and the barricade, of his fallen friends; dark eyes hollow and accusatory as the silent spectres continue to taunt him, but deep down he knows that will never come. Not now. A whispered, salty kiss to his forehead as he reaches up to clasp his best friends' fingers in his own; suddenly desperate for the security of another's touch, for the knowledge that he is here with him, with them, that he hasn't left him to face this strange, new reality alone. _His best friend, his comrade in arms, his brother in heart and soul and mind, his first and best lieutenant…_ The fingers shake slightly as the age old callouses rise up to greet shaking digits and he squeezes back with as much strength as he can muster, desperately trying to reassure him that for now, all is not lost.

_**A/N: Please feel free to read and review! Questions, comments, suggestions and constructive critcisims are like chocolate to my brain at the moment so please keep them coming in abundance! Much love and enjoy x**_


	5. The fan maker and the gamin

_**A/N: Another chapter for all the wonderful people who have given up their time to read, review, follow and favourite this story! I am forever indebted to you, especially when writing this is the only thing that's keeping me sane at the moment- damn you horrible A-Levels, damn you! A plague on all exams! OK rant over... **_

_**This chapter is written for Sarahbob who gave me the ingenious and pretty obvious suggestion to possibly vary my viewpoints on this fic instead of just doing pure Enjolras- much as I adore writing him, it does get quite monotonous going through pain and fever dreams! So, as a special treat for Sarahbob and all of you wonderful people for being such dedicated supporters of my work, here is some Feuilly/Gavroche/Cosette!**_

_**Disclaimer: As I am not male, French or living in C19th Paris- how can I possibly own Les Miserables? I am simply trying to convey my love for Victor Hugo's masterpiece into something cohesive- please don't sue me! Much love and enjoy! x**_

The fan maker and the gamin

_The pain returns the next morning; in full, unforgiving, fiery vengeance. It erupts in a blaze of heat across his abdomen, steadily sapping every last vestige of strength out of his shattered body as he lies curled up against the wall; the numb, trembling fingers of his good hand clutching convulsively at the cotton sling, desperately trying not to cry out; not wanting to alert the others. This is his pain. He can't, won't let the others feel it; not after they have experienced so much on his behalf, not when they have at last been given this blissful reprieve from the blood soaked terrors of Paris. His teeth hit the sweat soaked cotton and he bites down painfully, desperately trying to alleviate the sudden fiery monster that has consumed him so completely; squeezing his eyes shut against the burning pricks of pain that have erupted in the corners of his shattered eyelids; tears flowing in rivers of scalding salt down fever flushed cheeks. Ignoring the sudden shattering explosion of pain that bursts from the shattered limb, he draws his bad leg up to his chest and lies with his head firmly rammed against the wall; refusing to give into the silent screams that are crowding round his bloody, barren mouth, but finding it impossible. They burst through bleeding lips in a mass of sobbing, screaming cries and he is lost, falling through a dark expanse of nothingness as unknown voices crash over a dying brain…_

Feuilly has never been a good sleeper. After twelve or so years of either sleeping rough on the streets of Paris with one ear open for the slinking steps of the prowlers who stalked the night shrouded under an invisibility cloak of darkness or in a leaking tenement building without a proper lock; he has become immune to his insomnia and now considers it a part of the strange patchwork quilt of life that becomes a Franco-Polish fan maker. Beside him, curled up against his heart, he can feel the warm comforting weight of Gavroche as he softly slumbers through the cold, grey world of dreams.

The mop of dirty blonde curls is thrust under his chin as they cling to each other, each body refusing to let the other go. The stubborn ball of fiery life pushes itself further against his chest as he rests his chin on the angelic mop that still holds the faint odour of lavender soap that clings to Gavroche as tightly as the mass of shit that once enfolded him in a second skin. Lying there in the fluttering half-darkness listening to the gamin's steady sleepy breathing, Feuilly's mind turns without warning to Jehan and lying in the darkness his heart twists painfully in his chest as he remembers the softly spoken, wide eyed Romantic poet's last moments; shouting his final farewell to the beloved Revolution as he knelt on the blood soaked cobbles; thin, battered body shivering violently in the icy June dawn; wide, honey coloured eyes blinded by the scrap of dark material before he was consumed by the bayonet fire and was lost forever_… '__Vive la France! Vive l'avenir!'__ Oh Jehan… I'm sorry… It's my fault… I should have… _He can't help the sudden, pricks of salty pain that tease the back of his eyelids as he buries his face into Gavroche's curls and finally allows himself to weep for the memories of his fallen friends; relishing in the stinging slivers of salt coursing down his cheeks. As if sensing his guardian's external pain in his sleep fuddled state, Gavroche slowly extracts a shaking paw and grips the trembling fingers in his own; silently squeezing some sense of reassurance into the tense digits. 'Dziękuję Gavroche' he whispers thickly, automatically slipping into the broken, beautiful Polish vowels and wondering sleepily whether it would be too late to try and start teaching the gamin the basic frameworks of his beloved mother tongue.

He must have drifted off again, rocked back to oblivion by the steady, fluttering iambs of Gavroche's heart when a choked, sobbing scream shatters the heady silence. What on earth? He feels his grumbling body slowly surface before crashing headfirst into wakefulness in a matter of seconds as the realisation hits him with more force than a musket shot. _Enjolras! No… No… Not Enjolras… Not after they had been through so much and still survived… Not now… Please no…_ White hot and yet icy cold fear paralyses him as he tries to force his feet to move because he knows deep down that they need him.

'Feuilly?' He looks down at the voice, a voice that only moments was dead to the world but is now ringing clear from as bright blue eyes blink up at him; alight with the questioning fire of life. He shakes his head and stumbles back to the bed; his legs giving way as he sinks back onto the mattress and holds out a hand to the gamin who looks at him with wide, determined eyes; the flickering flame of life leaping high in the large, dark pupils. 'Feuilly, what is it?' The skinny ball of life snuggles close to him and reaches up to thumb away a stray scar of silver that is trickling down his cheek. He smiles sadly down at the heart breaking courage etched in every line of the gamin's impish face and makes to get up, but Gavroche grips his wrist and pulls him back; blue eyes boring unblinkingly into his own. 'It's... it's Enjolras…' His voice is little more than a choked whisper as he makes to get up and this time Gavroche relents, his vice like grip on his wrist loosening, but instead of snuggling back down into the cocooning safety granted by the mess of blankets, struggles to his feet and nods._ No 'roche… You don't understand… He… He might be…_

He doesn't have the strength to finish the thought but instead scoops the gamin into his arms and plants a smoky, sleepy kiss in the mess of blonde curls before making for the door; heart hammering with all the ferocity of a military drum in the silence; each step seeming to last a lifetime as they finally reach the door. The frantic thumping of his heart seems unnaturally loud in the silence as he grips the door knob, shifting Gavroche's wriggling weight into a more comfortable position as his palm slips over the polished metal; every inch of the calloused skin drenched in fearful, icy sweat. The gamin's short, sharp nails dig painfully into the tender flesh of his neck as he clings on; the blue eyes wide and fearful as he finally manages to turn the knob and step outside, his feet feeling as if they have been plunged into wet lead as he tries desperately to keep moving; walking blindly towards the sobbing, broken cries of his friend, his brother, his golden, glorious leader…

The sun is rising in a steady, graceful arch over a patchwork of rolling lawns and blooming gardens that he can just make out of the slashed windows; flooding the slowly awakening world in a bath of pure, watery gold. From somewhere, he can hear the faint crow of a cockerel answered by a clucking chorus of sleepy hens and the sound of a door being slammed along with a string of what he can only distinguish to be English curses. The blissful simplicity of the scene makes him want to vomit as he imagines Enjolras trapped in the dark throes of a fever dream and he coughs convulsively; choking down the fiery stream of phlegm as his hands tighten instinctively around Gavroche's trembling form. _He can't die. He won't die. He can't…_

He is so caught up in his desperate mental mantra that he does not see the figure hurrying down the passageway, an empty bowl clutched between shaking hands. He glances up and checks himself, only to see Cosette; her bright, blue eyes wide and fearful; her mane of light brown hair tumbling from its' plait in a hazel cascade down her back and spilling out over the soft, white linen of her nightgown. Her eyes widen as she sees him and Gavroche; the inky irises filled with such gut wrenching anxiety that he feels his heart slip through his chest and plummet through the floor; leaving him forever. _No… Not Enjolras… Please no… _Hot tears prick painfully in the back of his shattered eyelids which he furiously blinks back; refusing to succumb to the soft well of emotion, refusing to believe what his head says is the case. _Enjolras couldn't… He can't… We need him…_ He feels Gavroche shift slightly in his arms as a shaking paw is extracted and extended to Cosette who takes it lightly and gives the shaking digits a tight, reassuring squeeze before returning her tear stained, yet determined gaze to him. 'His fevers' spiked', she whispers brokenly. 'He's running a temperature of 106° and…' Her voice breaks slightly as she passes her free hand over her eyes and glances despairingly at the door where from inside he can hear… He doesn't want to think about he can hear. The broken pain in their friends' voice makes him want to bolt, to escape, to curl up somewhere cold and dark and force his shaking hands over his ears to try and quell the gut-wrenching cries of fever-induced grief that filter through the half open door. But he knows he can't. Knows that he must stay strong, knows that the pain will only get worse if he ignores it. Knows that they need him to be strong, for all their sakes; because if he can't and if Enjolras… _No… Don't think like that Feuilly… It's not over yet… It can't be over… _

'What can I do?' He glances down at Gavroche who is gazing up into his face with wide, terrified eyes, the cleft chin beginning to wobble violently as he desperately tries to keep his emotion in check. _He's just a child… Just a boy… He shouldn't be here… Shouldn't have been there… Shouldn't have seen what he's seen… No one should…_ He can't stop his eyes from wandering back towards the door where he can hear another voice; unknown, grating vowels cutting through his brain like a knife. He thinks he can hear Combeferre and Courfeyrac, desperately trying to calm the struggling body of their golden leader and a woman's voice, the lilt of childhood innocence still tugging at the end of the unknown words; a dancing flute like voice that he vaguely remembers from the confused night time chaos that had swept in with their arrival to this haven. Cosette shakes her head, the hands gripping the china bowl decorated with a dark blue frieze of dancing nymphs and shepherds shaking violently as she tries to keep her emotions in check. Awkwardly he manages to extract a hand from around Gavroche who shifts slightly, burying his face in the warm security of his collarbone and grips the bowl to keep it from slipping from shaking fingers and smashing on the polished wood beneath their feet. 'Cosette', her name seems strange in his mouth as he tests it tentatively against his tongue, rolling the vowel sounds like a wine taster. She glances up at the sound of her name; wide, blue eyes swimming with silver tears.

'I need to do something_. Anything,_ Cosette. He… Please?' His voice cracks without warning and he swallows painfully, knowing that he needs to get inside the unknown room behind the door, knowing that he needs to be with his friends, his family; that stubborn band of revolutionary dreamers who welcomed him into their pack with open arms and laughing smiles; knowing that for every second he deliberates, time is slipping like water through cupped hands and there is nothing he can do about it. She nods and swallows, biting her lip as she glances back towards the door; finally granting him permission to take his leave and move with painful slowness, whilst she dashes away to hide her tears. He starts to count his breaths, the combined fluttering iambs of two hearts straining in the silence… 1. 2. 3. 4. 5. 6. He reaches the door before he fully realises that he has, his hands slick with a river of icy sweat as he forces his aching feet to keep moving, keep living because he knows how much they need him. 7. 8. 9. 10. 11. 12. 13_. The desperate, pleading cries of the injured and the dying filtering through the sticky, icy June dawn as the fruits of their labours were cruelly snatched away from them…_ 14. 15. 16. 17. 18. 19. 20. _The broken, fever induced cries of a fallen God… _He can taste the sweet, metallic tang of blood bursting through dry lips as his teeth bite down on the soft flesh as his fingers shake, scrabbling towards the door. 21. 22. 23. 24. A harsh, barking command; unknown vowel sounds jarring painfully on untrained ears… _Please God… Please, please let him live… We need him… _His hands cling onto the sweat soaked metal, the blood rushing to the base of the skin as he forces his whole weight against it, eyes squeezed shut as he hears the wood grumble audibly as it expands, the hinges creaking as at long last the door swings open.

_**A/N: Please feel free to read and review! Constructive critcisim, comments, suggestions, questions are like chocolate to my brain and will keep me motivated through revision! Much love and enjoy x**_

_**Note on the text: Dziękuję = thank you (Polish) Blame Google Translate if that's wrong!**_


	6. Lost in the Dark

_**A/N: Another chapter for all the brilliant people who given up their time to read, review, follow and favourite my work! You have no idea how much it means to me to think that my babies are appreciated, especially when writing is the only thing that is keeping me from completely losing it over the thought of public exams! Thank you, you are all amazing and I love you from the bottom of my heart!**_

_**Disclaimer: As I am not Male, French or living in C19th Paris- how can I possibly own Les Miserables? I am simply trying to convey my love for Les Amis de l'ABC into something cohesive! Much love and enjoy x**_

Lost in the Dark

_He's trapped. Trapped in a hard, icy embrace that has enfolded itself around him as he struggles; desperately trying to escape the vice like grasp that has him in a headlock. The fiery ice surges through a screaming body; steadily sapping every last vestige of precious strength from his broken self as the fevered fire roars in triumph and it hurts… Mon Dieu it hurts… All the oxygen seems to have vanished from his lungs as he struggles fruitlessly against the hard, clutching hands that continue to hold him, forcing him deeper into the icy fire as his lungs continues to struggle; listening helplessly to the panicked screams of a broken, dying body mixed with sobbing, strangled cries as his useless body struggles… And from somewhere in the dark crevices of his shattered mind he thinks he can hear Combeferre begging with him, pleading with him to relax although how he can relax when he can barely breathe he doesn't know. _

_He can hear the choked up tears in his best friend's voice as he continues to talk to him in a soft, soothing voice that reminds him of long fire lit evenings spent in warm fraternal companionship in their shared apartment in Paris when he was finishing a speech for a rally the next day and 'Ferre was sitting by the fire reading Rousseau or Robespierre out loud; strings of verses and epithets floating through the icy, blood soaked pain that don't make sense and he's falling, drowning, dying… He doesn't know anything anymore except pain and fear as he struggles desperately against hard hands that continue to hold him as jarring vowel sounds rip through screaming ears and he can feel the blood pounding through his brain and unknown words falling from bitten, bleeding lips… And it's cold, so cold… Is this what dying feels like? He doesn't want to die… Not now… Not when… Desperately he tries to cry out to Combeferre, to anyone but the words that crowd round his bloody, barren mouth are cut short by a lolling, useless tongue and he's falling, drowning in icy, blood soaked darkness as the world is ripped away from his snatching, scrabbling grasp and his weakly struggling body is enfolded in a thick cloak of impenetrable darkness, never to be thought of again. _

Grantaire can't move. He's rooted to the spot gripping the back of a chair so hard that his knuckles have steadily transformed to a deathly white in a matter of seconds. His palms are slick with rivers of icy sweat as he struggles to control the burning torrent of emotion that is pricking painfully at the corners of his shattered eyelids as he watches in transfixed horror as a sobbing Combeferre and the hard faced English doctor with the glinting pince-nez wrestle with the struggling, crying body of the golden God as the fever roars in triumph as it slowly pulls the flickering, silver thread of life out of the ice cold, marble grasp. He can feel hands on his shoulders; soft, shaking hands that remind him of Adrienne which he shakes off violently, choking down a fiery cascade of vomit as his body sways uncontrollably, his feet suddenly unable to take his weight; his fingers shaking violently as they grip the sweat soaked wood, knowing that it is the only thing that is keeping him anchored to this blood soaked reality. _He wants a drink. No, needs a drink. Needs the cold, harsh reality of this strange new world to be smudged with the comforting darkness brought on by the fiery bliss of Absinthe or wine or anything…. _And yet he can't move. Can't tear his appalled eyes from the struggling body jerking and twisting completely out of control in Combeferre's shaking, sobbing grasp as they manhandle Enjolras towards the copper tub standing in the middle of the room, looking for all the world like a death pit; a huge cavenous hole filled with icy water that a pair of wide eyed, freckled boys with rough, tanned faces had brought up; sweating even in their cotton shirt sleeves under its immense weight.

He can't look at it. He hates it. Hates it because he knows that if he looks at it, then Apollo… then Apollo… He can feel hands on his shoulders, thick fingers digging painfully into the fabric of his jacket as he turns; grateful for the security of the unknown touch and yet hating himself as he has to tear his eyes away from his golden God and look instead to Feuilly whose wide, dark eyes are filled with unshed tears as he slowly deposits a wriggling Gavroche who barrels himself over to the safety of Courfeyrac and raises his eyebrows questioningly. Grantaire can only nod, not trusting himself to speak. The words that he could tell the fan maker roll painfully back into nothingness as Feuilly's calloused grip tightens; his eyes widening as the blow falls onto a body refusing to take it in. _It's not true… It can't be true… Please… Tell me it's not… It is… They… 'Ferre… 'pollo… The doctor…_The last thought shoots in a cascade of bitter hatred through his numb brain as he shakes his head forcefully and looks away; not wanting the fan maker's pity. He wants to be alone, wants to be dead, wants his golden Apollo to return to him, wants his mighty Phoenix to soar up from smouldering ashes of the fever in all his fiery splendour…

And from the huge, copper tub he can hear the desperate broken cries of his golden God mixed in with Combeferre, Courfeyrac and the blonde girl who looks like a splitting image of his idol only in female form, whose name he hasn't caught, although he thinks it begins with an H slicing the silence which is thick with fear, shock and guilt. From somewhere, he thinks he can hear someone calling his name; the harsh syllables making no sense as he feels himself trip blindly towards the tub; each shaking step seeming to last a lifetime. He can't stop the fearful, icy tremors that are slicing through his shivering body as he stumbles towards his friends; ignoring the unknown, warning hand that suddenly grips his shoulder, trying to force him back. He can't go back. Not now. _Why don't they understand?_

He has to be with Enjolras. No, needs to be with Enjolras. The distance from the chair to the bath tub seems to grow with every shaking step; a vast, dark, cavernous void that gapes up at him, the empty darkness luring a shivering, sober shade towards the blank nothingness of oblivion. The desperate, thudding iambs of his heart seem unnaturally loud in the silence as he staggers forward; his breath coming out in ragged, painful gasps as he forces himself to keep moving. Blindly he stumbles into who he can only distinguish as Combeferre; his whole body shaking with the weight of supressed emotion as he continues to speak in whispered, soothing tones to the struggling body who is thrashing through the icy abyss; the frigid water slowly saturating every last inch of cloth that clings to the feverish frame. 'It's alright Enjolras. Everything's going to be alright. Just breathe. That's it. Keep going… In... Out…'

The golden haloed head surfaces briefly from the icy depths; the bright, blue eyes so usually alight with the roaring flames of passion now pale and glazed with the purity of pain as they flicker and fail; completely at the mercy of the fevers' fiery torture. He can't look and yet he can't stop himself as the harsh unknown hands of the English doctor forces it below the surface; the movement taking on an almost mechanical quality; indifferent to the sobbing, strangled cries that continue to float from the thrashing body or Courfeyrac's desperate pleas to be gentle with him. On his other side, he can feel the soft presence of the unnamed woman who is crying quietly as she grips the side of the tub with shaking hands as she watches the body surface over and over again; only to be forced back into the icy fire of oblivion. A soft kiss of a word floats through her whispered mantra; a word, a name that he can only just distinguish. 'René… René… Mon petit frère… Mon Chérie…' As if sensing his gaze, she raises a tear stained face to his; the bright blue eyes, exact replicas of Apollo's and of Madame Flora's swimming with silver scars of salt as she buries her head in her hands and there is nothing he can do to comfort her…

A sudden, choking, sobbing gasp forces him back to reality as he looks round just in time to see Combeferre struggling with the sodden, dead weight of their fallen leader lying limp and lifeless in clutching, shaking arms. _He is still. So still. Please God… Please no… He looks to all the world like a marionette whose strings have been cut…_ The white hands usually so full of vibrant, hopeful passion now hanging limp and lifeless over the security of Combeferre's clutching embrace… The guide's wide, dark brown eyes are huge with unshed tears behind the misty spectacles as he cradles the corpse to his chest; (no, not a corpse, please no; not yet…) and staggers over to the mattress that has been stripped of its' sweat soaked sheets and gently lowers it onto the comforting softness, his hands trembling uncontrollably as they slip away from the sodden, shivering cotton and press down on the icy neck for a pulse. He can feel his heart thumping painfully somewhere near his Adam's apple as he waits, hardly daring to breathe as he feels a small, hot paw slip into his own and squeeze painfully. He squeezes back, unable to stop his fingers shaking for the security of another's touch as he grips Gavroche's hand in his own as they stumble as one towards the bed. Dimly, he can hear the doctor talking in hush, harsh tones to Madame Flora who is trembling in her flowing day gown; only the whalebone corset managing to keep her upright as she reaches for the bedpost and grips it between shaking fingers as if it is the only thing that will keep her from falling.

He reaches the bed before he fully realises that he has truly moved and finally, finally allows his shaking knees to give way. His muscles scream unheard cries of agony as they hit the hard, polished floor boards but he ignores them. External pain is as nothing to the roaring inferno of pained grief that has ignited itself within him. External pain is as nothing to… To… He can't stop the fiery waterfalls of salty pain from erupting from the back of his eyelids and lets them fall; relishing in the fact that something is real in this strange, new reality that he has found himself in. He feels himself pressed up against Combeferre who is still desperately looking for the fluttering heartbeat; that silver, throbbing thread of life that is their lifeblood, the heart and soul of this broken band of revolutionary dreamers…

'Ferre?' His voice is little more than a choked whisper as he pulls himself into a kneeling position to get a better look at his fallen God, his Apollo… The bright red, bitten lips stand in deathly contrast to the marble mask… The bright, blue eyes usually ablaze with the fiery flames of hopeful passion for Patria are squeezed shut against the fever's fiery torture, the pale cheeks hollow from the extent of the fiery coughs that continue to throttle the marble statue into submission… ''Ferre… is… is he… 'Ferre please...?'

The question falls away into the shocked silence as he gazes up into the dark, handsome face which is smudged red with weeping; refusing to believe it_. No… Not Enjolras… Please no… Tell me this is just a dream and I'll wake up… Just a drunken nightmare and I'll wake up… I've got to wake up… No… Not Apollo…_ Combeferre doesn't reply, simply pulls the broken, dark haired cynic into a shaking embrace and holds him; desperate for the security of another's touch. On his other side he can feel Courfeyrac's warm, shivering bulk pressing painfully into his side as a skinny ball of fiery life clambers up into his lap and sobs without restraint into the security of his chest.

_Oh Gavroche… 'roche…_ He feels Feuilly's weight drop down next to Combeferre as shaking, calloused hands scoop the wriggling weight of the gamin away. From somewhere he thinks he can hear pained, unsteady footsteps slowly making their way over to the tangled mess of sobbing limbs as five bodies continue to cling desperately to each other, weeping as one as Courfeyrac extends a shaking paw to Marius who drops to his knees and is pulled into the fray, pressed up against his shaking back as they finally allow themselves to weep for their fallen friends, their fallen leader, their lost lives… _'Don't leave me Apollo. Please… please don't leave me…'_ The words fall unrehearsed from trembling lips; lost in the sodden comfort of Combeferre's dependable chest as he continues to cling to the guide; trying to remember, trying not to forget.

_**A/N: I see I need to make another promise here... Enjolras IS going to survive! I know it really doesn't look like it at the moment, but he is; of that I am absolutely certain so please do not despair! Please feel free to read and review- comments, suggestions, questions and constructive critcisims are like chocolate to my brain! Much love and enjoy x **_

_**(Updates will sadly be fewer after this one because I've got revision and really want to do this story justice rather than stressing over it as well as school work; so you, my dear, faithful readers wil have to wait I'm afraid!)**_


	7. Broken Guides and Crumbling Centres

_**A/N: Another chapter for all the brilliant, brilliant people who have given up their time to read, review, follow and favourite this chapter- you have no idea how much it means to me to think that my work is appreciated! This chapter has been in my head for ages but only allowed itself to be written down when I was listening to John Owen Jones's cover of 'The Music of the Night' from Phantom of the Opera during a revision break so hopefully it should be up to everyone's impossibly high expectations! Much love and enjoy x**_

_**Disclaimer: As I am not Male, French or living in C19th Paris- how can I possibly own Les Miserables? Please don't sue me, I am simply trying to convey my love for Les Amis de l'ABC into something cohesive!**_

Broken Guides and Crumbling Centres

_A sodden halo of golden curls surfacing from icy depths… Bright, blue eyes usually so alight with the roaring flames of passion for Patria, for France, for the bright, eager minds of his stubborn band of revolutionary dreamers glazed with the purity of the pain; gasping, sobbing pitifully for relief from the fever's fiery torture… The fiery light of life flickering, failing, dying in the inky pupils as the harsh, brutal hands of the doctor force it back into the frigid abyss; completely oblivious to the strangled, broken cries that float from the body mixed in with his desperate pleas, Madame Flora's choking sobs and a whispered, broken mantra from the young woman with the mane of golden brilliance tumbling in disarray from her pins, the splitting image of his brother in all but blood, only in female form… Oh Enjolras… I'm sorry… So sorry Mon Petit… And he can feel the sodden, dead weight of a fallen God lying limp and lifeless across his chest; the cheeks hollow from the hacking coughs, the blazing eyes squeezed painfully shut against the fever's fire… _

_And he can hear Grantaire's broken howls of grief as thick, shaking fingers clutch at his jacket; a mop of dark hair thrust into his chest as he holds him close, listening to the cynic's sobbing, strangled gasps landing choked and broken against his heart. Can feel Courfeyrac's shivering, sobbing weight pressed up on his other side, fingers clutching, grasping for the security of another's touch. Can taste the salt trickling down Gavroche's impish face as Feuilly scoops him away and holds him close. Can feel a shaking hand being pressed into his shaking shoulder as Marius curled up beside him; shoulders heaving with the weight of supressed emotion. A splash of scarlet raised in painful triumph slashing through the shocked silence like a knife through cloth… The resounding rapport of the bayonet chorus ripping through his screaming brain and the body is falling, twisting, jerking… _

_Blood blooming from a dark necklace of bullet wounds all evenly placed across skin that is as pale and smooth as the Madonna's and he's running, sobbing, screaming a name bursting on another's lips as he falls to his knees beside the fallen God, heart throbbing painfully somewhere near his Adam's Apple as he desperately searches for the flicker of a pulse… Icy manacles biting painfully into tender flesh… The bitter bite of rope being tugged around outstretched wrists as he is pulled away like an animal being dragged to the slaughterhouse, to the galleys… To death … The dancing, leaping flame of passionate hope extinguished as quickly as a hand being cupped over a candle… Dancing, dying in wide, blue eyes now dull with pain and loss as he is forced to his knees and a blindfold tugged roughly over the bright, blue orbs and the steady resounding click of the safety catches from the firing squad rip through his screaming brain… No… Not Enjolras… Please… No… _

_The blinding purity of the marble statue sullied by a dark necklace of weeping bullet holes as a body struggles to support itself against the harsh, unknown hands of the blank faced English guard. Fingers digging painfully into the shockingly scarlet fabric, dark with a final blood soaked sacrifice to his beloved Patria… To his people… To his country which he would gladly give his life for in order to see it rise up in fiery splendour to the bright, white land of peaceful freedom free from the tyrannical hands of the Bourgeois… The blood of the martyrs will water the meadows of France… _

_Ice blue eyes barely visible through the rainbow mask of brutal bruising, the light of life flickering as a silent, desperate plea flies through the shocked silence; each frantic, juddering iamb of his rapidly beating heart seeming to last a lifetime as he feels an icy river of panicked sweat erupt over the back of shaking hands as he watches in disbelieving horror as his comrade in arms, his best friend, his brother in everything but blood is dragged away… And he hears Grantaire's broken, sobbing roar shatter the silence and he's struggling against an unknown, bearlike grip; desperately trying to reach him, refusing to believe that it is too late as the body stumbles back, reeling painfully from the impact of the blow… 'If anything should happen to me 'Ferre… Make sure the others get out alive… Please? They'll listen to you… Promise me….' _

_And he had shaken his head forcefully, one trembling hand tightening instinctively on his best friend's, his brother's shoulder because nothing was going to happen. Was it? They were going to be safe. Safe in distant Angleterre where they would be able to rest from the terrors of Paris, of the blood soaked barricade; where they would be able to start rebuilding shattered lives and honour the painfully clear memories of their fallen friends. Where they would be secure in the knowledge of their friendship, of the knowledge that they could sweep the weary counters off the constantly changing board of Life and try again tomorrow. Such childish, prideful dreams! He should have known better than to think that they really would be safe. That the tyrannical Louis Philippe and his National Guard would really have given up that easily. Should have known that from the instant the police had come banging on the door on that frigid Paris night that they would be hunted down like criminals, stalked like frightened animals; forever looking over their shoulders until the time was right for the hunt to culminate, for the prey to be cornered and ripped to bloody pieces… Oh God… 'Jolras… I'm sorry…_

Combeferre wakes with a start. For a moment he sits bolt upright in the fluttering, flickering darkness; listening to the painful thudding of his heart as he desperately tries to regain control over his ragged, jarring breathes that are ripped from screaming lungs as he gratefully gulps the sweet tang of oxygen. His eyelids flutter closed as he repeatedly tells his whirring, overactive brain over and over again that it was just a dream. Just a nightmare brought on by the pain and stress of the last few weeks that have passed in a bloody whirlwind… But had it been? It had seemed so real; the metallic stink of blood seeping in salty pools… The bright blue eyes dark with pained fear as the flag is raised_… 'Promise me 'Ferre, if anything should happen, you'll get the others out alive…'_

The screaming cries of the fallen as the silver threads of their little, insignificant lives are snapped… Joly… Bossuet… Bahorel… Jehan… Eponine Thenardier… And the students… The countless, nameless students and workers who had rallied so valiantly to their scarlet Liberty flag and whose little, insignificant lives were sliced short by Fate's cruel shears with as much care as a farmer sheathing a field of wheat at harvest time who were now little more than blank faced corpses; remembered only by the dusty cobblestones that had soaked up their final bloody sacrifice. The scrabbling, blood stained hands reaching out in plaintive supplication for a world that had been cruelly snatched from their clutching, failing grasp…

Dimly, he can feel the ominous, nagging prickles of static pain coursing up and down the taught tendons of his neck and the bite of metal on the bridge of his nose as his spectacles begin to make their customary journey down to earth whenever he forgets to remove them. His whole body aches from being in the same position for so long, sitting in the hard, wooden chair pulled up as close to the bed as he dares where… Where… Instinctively he extracts a numb hand and reaches out to grasp the limp white fingers in his own, desperately trying to ignite the flickering flame of passionate life once more. The skin is icy beneath his touch as he grips the fingers in one hand, the other slowly reaching up to brush away a stray lock of sweat soaked gold out of the bright, blue eyes still squeezed shut from the fever's fiery embrace, numb fingers dancing perilously over the marble forehead that is bathed in ice cold cloths in a desperate attempt to pacify the fiery monster that has consumed him so completely and refuses to let him go. _Oh Enjolras… Mon Petit… Mon Ami… Please come back… I… I can't do this… Not without you… I need you here Mon petit frère … We need you… We can't do this alone… None of us can…_ He can't help the sudden pricks of fiery emotion which explode in the back of his shattered eyelids and he lets the scalding scars of salt fall; relishing in the fact that at last something is real in this strange, cold, blood soaked, nightmarish reality that they have found themselves thrown into. He feels his shoulders shake convulsively with the weight of the supressed emotion as he buries his face in his hands and finally allows himself to weep for the memories of his fallen friends, for his lost life; for the flickering, failing life of the one who lies in the bed beside him…

The sensation of shaking pressure on his shoulder. He glances up painfully, his eyes stinging from a mixture of exhausted emotion, to see Courfeyrac kneeling beside the chair; his hazel irises flecked with gold like that of a dying sunset drooping with tiredness and yet alive with compassion as he reaches up to tuck a stray lock of hair out of his eyes. ''Ferre?' The centre's voice is sluggish with sleep and choked with emotion as he reaches up to grip the guide's shaking shoulder and gives it a tight, reassuring squeeze. 'Ferre, come on. You need to rest. Please?' He shakes his head firmly, because he can't rest. Not now. Not when he knows what will come with the enticing oblivion of sleep and he doesn't want to face it. Doesn't want to face the fact that it is his fault… All of it…

He wishes Courfeyrac would just leave him alone, leave him to try and face his guilt-ridden grief his own way, but knows that he won't. Courfeyrac is like a terrier, constantly gnawing at a problem until he can get to the base of the matter. He feels his friend move away and hopes desperately that he will leave him alone but instead feels himself being pulled into a fierce, capable embrace from behind; thick hands locking themselves around the frantic thumping of his heart. He feels his head loll into the security of a hard, dependable chest as 'Feyrac rests his chin in his hair and kisses the soft, mess of dark hair, two pairs of eyes filled with unshed tears gazing down at their fallen friend lying so peacefully on the bed, that to an unknown eye he could be sleeping. His heart twists painfully in his chest as he gazes down at the body of their fallen leader… _So young, so beautiful, so… so broken…_

The bitter irony makes him want to gag as he blinks back the sudden pricks of fiery pain that have erupted yet again in the back of his eyelids; not wanting to succumb once more to the dark well of emotion tugging tantalizing at the corners of his brain. 'Cry all you want 'Ferre, I'm here. I won't leave you. Not now', Courfeyrac's voice is muffled through his hair and in an instant he is suddenly transported back to the fiacre and Enjolras's wide, frightened gaze silently pleading with him to stay as he held the shaking body close; refusing to even think about letting go.

The thought of those final moments of fraternal companionship amid the confusion simply makes him cry harder against the centre; his whole body shivering with the weight of guilt-ridden pain and loss. Courfeyrac doesn't speak, isn't even frazzled by this sudden outburst of emotion; simply pulls him closer, one shaking finger slowly tracing the line of his cheek as another brushes another stray lock of dark hair out of brimming eyes and shaking lips brush a cheek scarred with searing salt. Lips that taste of salt and unshed emotion as he leans further into Courfeyrac's comforting weight and thinks suddenly of Jehan… _Jehan, the baby of Les Amis __de l'ABC__. Jehan with his wide, honey coloured eyes and twinkling smile and a voice that could make angels weep as he rushed into the heady atmosphere of feverish anticipation mixed with the warm comfort of companionship, bursting with excitement at a new poem or clutching the latest publication of 'The People's Friend' in feverish excitement as Courfeyrac pulled him into a clutching embrace, eyes shining with undiluted, childish happiness… Such a little life filled with such bright, hopeful potential only to be snapped short by a resounding chorus of bayonets in the cold, June dawn shouting a final farewell to the beloved revolution…_ '_Vive la France! Vive l'avenir!' _'I'm sorry 'Feyrac', he whispers brokenly as he feels capable fingers cup his chin and force his head up to match the shining hazel eyes of the centre as a trembling finger presses itself firmly on quivering lips.

'Don't be', Courfeyrac's voice is little more than choked whisper as he kisses him again. 'Jehan… Jehan… He knew what we were fighting for… They all did… They wouldn't want…' His voice tails away into a mass of broken syllables as his hands tighten instinctively around Combeferre's shivering shoulders and they continue to cling to each other, refusing to let the other go; finally allowing themselves to weep together for the memories of their fallen friends, for the ones that remain in stubborn companionship at their side, for the one that holds so much hope and life; now lying limp and lifeless on the bed beside them. _'Please come back to us 'Jolras… We need you Mon Ami… Please come home…'_

**_A/N: Please feel free to read and review! Comments, suggestions, questions and constructive critcisms are like chocolate to my brain! Much love and enjoy x_**


	8. Awake My Soul

**A/N:**_** Another chapter for the wonderful people who gave given up their time to read, review, follow and favourite this story! I can't tell you how much it means to me to think that my work is appreciated- you are all amazing and I don't think I have words enough in me at the moment to say how much I love you all! Thank you! Much love and enjoy x **_

_**Disclaimer: As I am not Male, French, or living in C19th Paris- how can I possibly own Les Miserables- I am simply trying to convey my love for Les Amis de l'ABC into something cohesive- please don't sue me! x **_

_**(Chapter title 'borrowed' from Mumford and Son's song of the same name- not suprisingly I don't own that either although I really wish I did!)**_

Awake My Soul

_Cold. Wet. Darkness. A soft, enticing darkness that has enveloped itself around a shivering, shaking body in an impenetrable, velvet cloak of nothingness. From the dark crevices of his shattered mind, he thinks he can hear a whispered, lisping voice babbling with words that don't make sense. The harsh, unknown sounds mixed with soft French undertones jar painfully on ringing, throbbing ears as he desperately tries to burrow further into the enticing nothingness of oblivion, but the soft darkness is slowly slipping away from his scrabbling, snatching grasp; leaving him stranded on this strange, blank, pain filled reality that doesn't make any sense whatsoever. Everything aches. His whole body throbs with the numbing, dying purity of the pain as it courses through shattered limbs, swirling itself around a shivering shade as he slowly begs his broken mind to try and help him put it all together. Put it all back together; the scattered, shattered jigsaw of his life that Fate has so carelessly tossed into the darkness of oblivion and has then left him to try and pick up the pieces; leaving him with a mess of flickering, half-formed memories which refuse to make any sense…_

_The impenetrable chill of frigid water as a burning, struggling body is forced into a dark, icy abyss… Harsh, unknown hands bearing down on him and he can't breathe as they force him to comply… He won't comply… He will not be lead like a lamb to the slaughterhouse… A soft voice choked with tears begging him, pleading with him to relax although how he can relax when he can barely breathe he doesn't know… Shaking fingers fumbling over ice cold, marble skin as he is pulled up out of nothingness; gasping… choking… sobbing… dying… _

_The thin, metallic, ice cold scream of a knife being placed blade downwards on burning flesh… Sobbing, roaring cries… Soft, nonsensical epithets floating weirdly through air that stinks of blood and grief as he struggles through the frigid fire; desperately trying to reach it … But the pain continues to consume him as his pleading, sobbing cries are crushed back into oblivion… His jerking body forced once again into the ice… Broken syllables washing over a fractured soul as hands continue to hold him… Hands he knows but they don't make sense…. Whispered, salt stained kisses pressing themselves to an icy forehead… Thick, shaking fingers softly brushing back a lock of sweat soaked gold… Whispered words that float through his broken brain… Choked, broken words that continue to support his battered body as he struggles towards them, desperately trying to reach them… _

_'Please come back to us 'Jolras… please come home…' _

_The weight of the cotton sling caressing the whole of his left side; his broken arm resting like a dead weight on a chest that is consumed with numbing, icy fire. Icy fire that has enfolded his struggling, broken lungs as they desperately try to consume the sweet tang of oxygen that is marred with the heady tang of body odour, the icy metallic stink of blood and the salty sweetness of unshed tears and a soft flowery scent which he can't quite place which tickles his dying nostrils which makes him think of Jehan braiding a heap of wild flowers picked from the Larks' Field into Grantaire's greasy locks as the drunken cynic slumbered on; intoxicated to unconsciousness with the deadly concoction of Absinthe and wine, completely oblivious to the eager voices dancing above him, desperately trying to ignite the flickering flames into the roaring inferno of change dreamt up by Saint Just and Rousseau… _

_His heart twists painfully in his chest as he remembers that last night in the Musain, the ghosts of their laughing smiles steadily supporting his shattered mind back to this cold new reality that does not have the scarlet comfort of the Revolution for him to fall back on… That last night of heady companionship as the bright, eager minds of his brothers laughed and joked… The roaring flame of passionate life leaping high in inky pupils, now little more than blank faced corpses; remembered only by the dusty cobblestones that had soaked up their final scarlet sacrifice to Patria… Oh my friends, my friends, forgive me! It's my fault…All my fault…_

_Damp softness consumes his broken body as he feels the thick, trembling pressure fumbling in his palm that feels oddly stiff and cold; desperate for the safety, the security of another's touch. Another voice has joined that of the babbling, lisping nonsense that has settled into a dull, throbbing mantra at the back of his mind. A voice that is choked with tears as he feels numbs fingers dancing over his aching forehead that is bathed with icy coldness that still does not quell the fiery ache completely. The scrape of a door being pushed open, chairs being pulled roughly across polished wooden floorboards… Pressure in a marble palm… Hushed voices that he vaguely recognizes as thick fingers grip his other hand, desperately trying to ignite the flickering flame of life once more. He feels his head loll painfully into the sweat soaked softness as the fingers shake violently in his own, tightening painfully as another hand slowly reaches up to brush a stray lock of sweat soaked gold out of bright, blue eyes still squeezed shut from the fevers' fiery torture and yet flickering…fluttering… 'Ferre? ... 'Feyrac? Maman… I… What … What's happening? ... The others… Where… Are… Are they…? Tell me… Please…? I need… Another voice; as cold and as welcoming as water is to a dying man softly floating through the sudden burst of panicked confusion as he struggles to wake up… Knowing that he has to wake up because he needs to lead them…They need him and yet… Why is it so hard? 'Hush René, it's alright Mon Petit Chérie. It's alright.' _

_Odd shapes flickering weirdly through his perpetual line of vision… Shapes that don't make sense and yet they do as a hard, cold something is pressed to bitten, bleeding lips as capable hands support his aching head and a blissfully cold something surges down a burning throat… He tries to speak, tries to ask them what's happening to him as he feels a whispered, salty kiss sweep over a marble forehead bathed in cold but the words fall into nothingness; cut short by a lolling, useless tongue that lies thick and dormant in a bloody mouth. A soft voice whispering a name that is barely audible in the dark confusion of his brain… A voice he recognizes as a name slowly rises through his mouth… A name that speaks of long fire lit evenings spent in comforting fraternal companionship listening to a soft voice reading Rousseau or Robespierre out loud… _

'Combeferre?' The word rasps painfully against the tender roof of his mouth, as if he hasn't spoken clearly for hours, for days…. He blinks painfully as the pressure in his palm increases and a shaking hand lays itself warningly on his shoulder as he tries to sit up, ignoring the silent screams of his aching muscles as they are forced to contract and in doing so collapses against the headboard, suddenly overcome by a crushing sense of exhaustion. A soft, wane sunlight burns his retinas, so recently used to the crushing darkness of oblivion; filtering faintly through a slashed window bathing everything in a soft bath of watery gold. A warning, steadying hand presses lightly on his shoulder and he blinks up through eyes still clouded with the remnants of feverish oblivion at the face grinning down at him through a mask of unshed tears. 'Good to see you back my friend'. Courfeyrac. Courfeyrac, his mess of ebony curls even more tousled than usual; hazel eyes flecked with gold sparkling with silver diamonds as thick, nimble fingers curl protectively around his shoulder, smudges of purple bruising lining the soft, fleshy skin…._Oh 'Feyrac… Mon Ami… It's alright… I'm alright… _

Dimly, he remembers; or perhaps imagines that he remembers thick fingers softly sweeping a lock of sweat soaked gold out of eyes still squeezed shut from the fever's unforgiving, fiery torture as thick lips brush a marble forehead as he smiles his thanks to Courfeyrac who can only nod, eyes brimming as he looks away, not wanting to succumb to the dark well of emotion tugging tantalizingly at the corners of his brain. He feels his eyes flicker from the centre, furiously blinking away the remnants of the tantalizingly soft bed of grey oblivion as they land on the mass of tearstained faces smiling down at him. Combeferre sitting as close to the bed as he dares, his spectacles misty; wide, dark eyes smudged with shadows huge with unshed compassionate emotion as one long fingered hand rests lightly in his palm as the other reaches up to brush a stray lock of hair out of wide blue eyes… The fingers shake slightly as they dance over his forehead, silently tracing the line of his cheek in desperate reassurance that he really is alive; the wide, dark pupils alive with worry… _'Ferre… Mon Frère… Mon Ami… I'm so sorry… I'm alright… It's alright Mon Ami…_

Feuilly holding a wriggling Gavroche who is trying desperately to evade his clutching embrace; bright, blue eyes alight with childish happiness as Feuilly finally relinquishes his grasp and grins as the ball of fiery life barrels itself over to the bedside. He smiles tiredly at the gamin as Combeferre reaches out a warning hand to him and he pouts before dropping to his knees and gazing at the Fallen and yet Resurrected God with amazed eyes shining with unshed, silver diamonds. Thick fingers resting lightly on his other shoulder; short, sharp nails digging painfully into the thin cotton of his nightshirt as taught spasms of pain fly up the broken arm. He feels his eyes slip shut as he attempts to force the fiery monster back as the grip tightens instinctively, the light, smoky scent of alcohol tickling his aching nostrils as a sneeze courses through him… Grantaire? Silent sobs soak his shirt as the cynic pulls him close; thick fingers shaking violently with supressed emotion as the dark mop of greasy hair buries itself in the sweaty cotton of his aching chest; whispered words barely audible between the silent, sobbing howls of grief as he clings to his golden God; refusing to even contemplate about letting him go.

'Apollo… My Phoenix… Mon Ami…' He feels himself lean gratefully into the cynic's sobbing weight as Grantaire hiccoughs himself into silence as he clumsily pulls the drunkard into a one armed embrace and holds him; golden curls meeting dark as he presses their heads together in silent reassurance that all is not lost. That Fate has not considered it part of her perverse duty to carry him back to the angels. That he is with them again; safe and whole in the knowledge of their friendship. That he won't leave them. Not now.

The creak of a door being pushed open; the wood groaning audibly as the hinges expand in a groaning chorus of rusty metal as pained, unsteady footsteps begin to make their slow process towards the bed. He blinks up as Marius as he manoeuvres himself painfully across the room; one hand leaning heavily on Cosette whose wide, blue eyes are shining with happiness as he slips into the one remaining chair beside Feuilly and grins at him, the hand not bound by his sling clasped in Cosette's long, delicate fingers as she flashes him a reassuring smile; the dimples in her cheeks glowing with childlike happiness.

'_The Golden God has seen fit to return to us mere mortals once more, I see?_' The unspoken jest sends a smile tugging at the edges of ice cold lips as he raises his eyebrows painfully at him in a mock, half-hearted attempt at outrage. He knows that he can't really be angry towards Marius, not after everything they went through together during those bloody hours on the Barricade, now blood soaked memories that lie dormant in the dark crevices of his brain; biding their time, waiting to pounce on him when he is at his most vulnerable. He can still make out the last vestiges of painful fear lingering in the soft, brown eyes of the Bonapartist, in all of his friends' eyes as he flicks his gaze over the remainder of the room and tries to smile, feeling sudden pricks of salty pain teasing the back of his shattered eyelids which he furiously blinks back; silently apologising for all the pain and grief he has caused them as he feels Combeferre and Courfeyrac silently and expertly begin to work their way around his newly awakened body. Dimly, he feels his head turn into a hard, dependable chest as his eyes begin to flutter closed; rocked back to oblivion by the comforting, thudding mantra of his friends' pulses as they steadily support his shattered mind once again into the comforting darkness of sleep.

_**A/N: Please feel free to read and review! Questions, comments, suggestions, constructive critcisms etc are like chocolate to my brain! This will be my last chapter on this story for some time (until after my exams are finished)! But, please remember that I love you all and you are all amazing for sticking with me- thank you! Much love and enjoy x**_


	9. Moments

_**A/N: I know this story is meant to be on hiatus, but I need to get this chapter posted before exams start next week! This is for all the wonderful people who have stuck with this story and with my ramblings- you have no idea how much it means to me to think that my work is appreciated! You are all incredible and I love you and thank you from the bottom of my heart for being such dedicated supporters of my work!**_

_**Disclaimer: As I am not Male, French or living in C19th Paris- how can I possibly own Les Miserables- I am simply trying to put my love for Les Amis de l'ABC into coherent words- please don't sue me!**_

Moments

_Soft nimble fingers entwining themselves amid a mess of golden curls, gently carding themselves through sweaty locks as a metallic icy something is pressed to parched lips. The sweet scent of honey mixed with something else that his exhausted brain can't quite place trickles deliciously down a burning throat as hands gently support his head, his neck cricking painfully as the warm, comforting pressure of a calloused palm enfolds itself around the taught muscles and holds them steady. His whole body aches. A dull, throbbing ache that explodes in short, numbing blasts of pain across his chest; flying up and down his broken limbs in flurrying flashes of excruciating agony that his drug dulled brain cannot yet process properly. His head aches and his eyes don't want to open; squeezed shut against a glaring, flickering brightness that dances playfully across his retinas and all he wants is oblivion… The dark, comforting nothingness of oblivion in which nothing matters; the pain, the clawing, guilt ridden grief for his lost friends, his broken revolution, the knowledge that he is trapped within a beaten, broken body… He reaches out for the sweet liquid once more, suddenly desperate for the icy coldness of the metal on his lips; but it doesn't come. Instead he is met by a sweeping, whispered kiss to his temple as delicate, capable hands begin to caress his shoulders; slowly mouldering his useless body into a sitting position. _

_He feels his head turn into the comforting safety of the unknown armpit as a sudden, unbidden wave of nausea grips him; making him cough violently as the spasm of icy vomit rips through his broken lungs and leaves him weak and shaking in this strange, new reality that still makes no sense as he struggles to control the gagging coughs that are threatening to overwhelm him. He buries his head further into the comforting security of the unknown armpit as capable hands cup themselves around his quivering chin; delicate, calloused fingers trembling slightly as they curl themselves around sharp cheekbones; forcing his head out of the dark softness and back into the strange, new reality that he still does not understand completely. Voices continue to wash over his aching head as he feels pressure on his good shoulder, steadily grounding him into reality as nimble fingers curl themselves into his palm in silent invitation. The cold bite of metal amid the hard roughness of a polished stone rises to his trembling fingertips as he realises with a shock that it is Henriette. At least he thinks it is Henriette as a soft, lilting voice floats through the blank oblivion that has enfolded itself around his shattered soul, a beacon of flickering, leaping light that is so tantalizingly close and yet so far away…_

'_Dodo, l'enfant do… l'enfant dormira bien vite…' __The words, once as familiar to his childhood self as breathing now seem strange and unfamiliar to his adult ear as vague memories of a hushed, dark room and a huge bed with a patchwork quilt flicker through his slowly awakening brain; flicker and fail as a sudden burst of fiery pain courses through his chest and he has to bite back the sudden cry of pain rising through parched lips, because he has to be quiet, he has to bear this agony because it is vital they stay together… A whispered kiss to his forehead as a nonsensical stream of verses and epithets joins the lilting melody as another flutter of pain flies through his aching chest and the hand gripping his shoulder tightens instinctively, fingernails digging painfully into tender flesh… An unbidden choking sob rolls painfully back through his throat as fingers trace themselves around his chest; fiery bursts of pain chasing themselves across his shattered self as the voice continues to whisper to him, telling him that it will be alright, that he is safe, that… _

'_It's alright Enjolras. Everything's going to be alright. Just breathe. I… I'm here… it's alright…' A sudden, numbing burst of fiery agony exploding through his chest and he can't breathe… Why can't he breathe? Why? Desperately he reaches out for something to hold onto as a hacking, choking cough rips through shattered lungs and he feels fingers beneath his own; tense, taught digits that rise to sweat soaked, shaking skin and curl in silent invitation into a trembling palm. _

_'Squeeze all you want Mon Ami. I'm here. We're here, we're here; all of us. It's alright…' Courfeyrac? He can hear the choked tears in the centre's voice; tears that sound alien to a voice so usually dancing with mirth as he presses down hard into his friend's hand; silently apologising for the pain he knows 'Feyrac feels as a whispered, salty kiss sweeps his forehead; a kiss that tastes of honeyed lavender as the fire slowly ebbs away and he is left, stranded on a strange, blank reality; clinging to Courfeyrac's hand with all the strength his shattered self can muster. A trembling finger tracing the line of a burning cheek as the familiar scent of ink and wet leather enfolds him into a capable embrace and holds him; the nonsensical mantra muffled through his hair as he is slowly lowered back into oblivion.  
_

He surfaces slowly back into reality; painfully pulling a battered body up through the blankness of oblivion. His chest aches; a numbing, fiery ache that is steadily eating him up from the inside and refuses to let him go as he feels himself suck in another involuntary gasp of pain. From somewhere he can hear voices, one he recognises as Courfeyrac and another he doesn't. It's a woman's voice; a child's voice, the unknown English words made even more complicated by the thick country accent that wraps everything into a blanket of confused sounds that make little sense to his shattered mind. From outside the door, he can faintly distinguish the sound of racing feet pattering furiously over the floorboards and a duet of alto voices rising through the dark floorboards as the house slowly unfurls itself into wakefulness. He thinks he can hear Feuilly and Grantaire, harsh syllables combining as they chase whoever has become their prey, voices rising and falling through the house as a door slams shut and the sound of racing footsteps sprinting up the stairs and off into oblivion._  
_

The whisper of a door being slid shut and the scrape of shutter bolts being prised apart as the silence stretches, broken only by Courfeyrac's quiet footfalls as he inches the groaning, creaking hinges apart. The weak morning sunlight burns his half closed eyes as he blinks back the sudden, nagging burst of pain that has erupted in the back of his head and struggles to sit up as a the sound of wood scraping itself across the floorboards jars painfully through ringing ears. The sensation of pressure in his hand, a warm, solid, comforting skin in his palm as a thick finger traces the line of his cheek; silently asking him to wake up. He doesn't want to wake up. He wants to bury himself further into the enticing darkness of oblivion, but knows that with Courfeyrac with him and the numbing, fiery pain that is steadily consuming his shattered self, it will not be an option.

Morning 'Jolras', Courfeyrac's voice is full of tender, compassionate concern as he hears the ringing slosh of liquid against metal as something is pressed into his good hand. He blinks up at his centre, the glue of Les Amis de l'ABC as the spoon shakes violently between his numb fingers, the very action steadily sapping every last vestige of precious strength out of him as he tries to hold it steady; raising his eyebrows in what he knows is a shadow of his usual disdain at being mollycoddled. Courfeyrac simply laughs at this and reaches over to ruffle his hair in fond, fraternal companionship; a faint smile dancing across his lips. _'You'll have to do better than that Mon Ami. We've missed you. So much. Welcome back'. _

The bright hazel eyes are wide with exhaustion, the whole effect made worse by the soft lining of purple bruising that caresses the fleshy skin below the lower lashes. Running a weary hand through his hair, he perches himself on the edge of the mattress and slides the tray onto Enjolras' knees, one hand slowly reaching out to grip the fingers clenched around the metal spoon as wide, blue eyes still dark with the nagging vestiges of pain gaze up at him in silent desperation as he surveys the thin broth swirling in the bowl; feeling his stomach clench at the thought of the liquid surging down a throat that he knows will not swallow.

'You need to eat 'Jol, or 'Ferre will have my guts for garters', he says firmly, hating the fact that he has to be so serious with his friend. The familiar nickname used only as a term of endearment slips unconsciously from dry lips and he silently berates himself as a flicker of pain flash fleetingly through the ice blue irises. His heart twists painfully in his chest as he squeezes the tense knuckles, silently apologetic as the medic's last moments flash before his eyes and he has to blink, refusing to succumb to the soft well of emotion tugging tantalizingly at the corners of his brain… _Joly kneeling beside a fallen Bossuet, dark eyes the colour of autumn leaves swimming with silver tears as he clings to the bald man's hand, desperately trying to staunch the scarlet stain that was seeping through the fabric of his tattered waistcoat, whispered words of comfort lost in the chaotic melee of battle as he forces himself to remain calm and yet knowing that time, precious time was slipping through his blood stained palms like water through cupped hands as he desperately tries to hold onto the fraying thread of luckless life … Joly who had been caught in the back by a bayonet thrust as he knelt up to call to Combeferre for help and was lost forever, dark eyes widening, the light of life flickering, failing, snuffed out like a hand being cupped over a candle…_

_Oh God… Joly... Bahorel… Bossuet… Jehan… Jehan with his wide, honey coloured eyes and soft laugh… Nimble fingers forever stained with the blue-black blood of ink as he scribbled furiously on a crumbled sheet of parchment, desperately trying to satisfy his ferociously hungry muse… Such a little, insignificant life only to be slashed before its time! Éponine Thenardier with her mane of inky ebony trailing over Combeferre's arm as he carried the corpse bridal-style towards the flickering lights of the Musain… And the students… The countless unnamed students and workers who had rallied so valiantly to their scarlet Liberty standard only to have their lives sliced with as much care as a farmer sheathing a field of wheat at harvest time… _

_And he can still hear the broken cries of the fallen as Fate begins her perverted rounds on the barricade, silently snapping each silver strand of life before its' time and it's all going wrong… Everything's going wrong because he can see Enjolras being forced to his knees, a blindfold being tugged roughly over bright blue orbs so usually filled with passionate hope for his beloved Patria now clouded with pain and loss as the rattling rapport of the firing squad rips through a screaming brain and the golden God is crashing with a deafening finality back to Earth… But that isn't happening… It can't be happening… Enjolras is alive… Their golden, godlike chief is alive… They are safe… And yet he still hears Jehan shouting his final farewell to the beloved revolution as he kneels on the blood soaked cobbles; broken body shivering in the icy dawn; wide, bright eyes blindfolded as the chattering chorus enfolds him in a plume of fiery smoke and he is lost forever… Jehan… Mon Ami… Mon Amour… I'm so sorry... 'Vive la France! Vive l'avenir!'_

'Fey?' Enjolras's voice is tight with pained concern as he blinks rapidly, forcefully shoving the memories of the barricade to the back of his mind. He knows that he will have to face them one day, that the pain will only get worse if he ignores it, but not yet. Not yet. Instead he forces his twitching mouth into a watery smile at the heart breaking concern etched in every strand of the piercing blue eyes and shakes his head. _What's wrong? Nothing… Nothing… I… Come on 'Fey…. Tell me? Please?_

He tries to shrug the moment off but Enjolras continues to watch him curiously, bright eyes still clouded slightly with pain dancing with the remnants of an age-old furious intensity as he continues to squeeze the centre's hand with as much strength as he muster. The spoon shivers slightly as the shaking fingers relax and he has to dart out a hand to stop it from spilling into the bowl, fingers trembling slightly as they grip the shaking, marble wrist. Enjolras glances down at the pressure, eyes shining with tears as he watches the liquid swirl in the metal; stomach clenching painfully as Courfeyrac guides the spoon to trembling lips, his eyes brimming with unshed tears as he tries to stem the bitter onslaught of emotion that is tugging tantalizingly at the corner of his brain. He hates seeing him like this; their golden, godlike leader reduced to nothing more than a skeletal shell of his former, golden glory. Hates the fact that he looks so young, so broken and the fact that there is nothing he can do about it. Nothing.

'Please 'Jol', he whispers as the spoon wobbles again, the stiff digits shaking with effort as it rises with painful slowness towards the dry, bitten lips. There are tears in his eyes, minute pricks of painful emotion as he watches Enjolras try again; hand visibly trembling as he raises the spoon to his lips and takes a sip; eyes slipping shut as the liquid hits his burning throat as a small, choked sound escapes the broken muscles; a sound which Courfeyrac can only distinguish to be a sort of strangled sob as the spoon hits the bowl with a ringing clatter and a small waterfall of broth stains the pristine sheets, the fatty liquid slowly seeping through the crisp cotton as the golden God begins to cry in earnest, shoulders heaving under the weight of suppressed emotion.

Pushing the tray away, he feels himself shift further up the mattress and enfold the sobbing chief into his arms, pressing the trembling frame into his chest as one hand reaches up to entwine themselves in a mess of sweat soaked golden curls, whispered words of comfort falling unheeded through trembling lips, muffled through the sweaty, golden mane. He can feel Enjolras' breaths falling in choked, ragged, sobbing gasps against his heart, feel himself wince inwardly as he hears the tiny, wheezing undertone as the blood swirls through his friends' broken lungs and knows he should get Combeferre; but doesn't. Not yet. Instead he feels himself pull the broken blonde into a tight embrace and holds him; the tray, the bowl and the stain on the sheet forgotten as a trembling finger traces the quivering chin; dancing over fever flushed skin as he thumbs away a stray scar of salty silver out of the wide, blue eyes.

'It's alright 'Jol', he finds himself whispering over and over again; trying to keep his voice neutral as shaking, salt stained lips brush the soggy mane, thick fingers clutching at thin cotton, wanting desperately to pick the body up and shield it from all the injustices in this cold, nightmarish reality. The sobs subside slowly, slipping into a ferocious, hacking cough that continues to throttle the thin frame as the crumbling statue buries his head further into his centre's chest; a stream of whispered, tear stained words that Courfeyrac can only just distinguish landing choked and broken against his heart. '_I'm sorry… I'm so sorry… It's my fault… It's all my fault… My poet… My fighter… My medic… My survivor… I'm so sorry… So sorry Patria... It's my fault...' _Courfeyrac can't bear it as he traces Enjolras' salt scarred, fever flushed cheek and kisses him softly on the temple, trying to tell him without words that it isn't his fault. That their friends had known what they were fighting for, they all had; that they had known the dangers; that they would have followed the scarlet Liberty banner to the ends of the Earth and back again in order to restore peace and light and liberty to their leaders beloved Patria. But he doesn't say that. Instead he extracts a numb hand from around his chief and gropes for the water glass resting on the trestle table beside the bed that he presses against the trembling, bitten lips, watching as Enjolras' good hand reaches up to grip his fingers curled round the cold rim; eyes brimming with pained emotion as the numb digits begin to shake uncontrollably; his whole body trembling as another bout of agonizingly painful coughing consumes him, throttling him into painful submission which he knows he cannot fight.

'That's it,' brushing his lips against the marble forehead; Courfeyrac slowly extracts his trembling hands from his leaders' shaking frame and slowly lowers him back into oblivion. His heart twists painfully in his chest as he sinks back into the chair and tangles his fingers with Enjolras' own, watching a small smile dance fleetingly across the icy lips as at last, at long last he allows himself to succumb to the enticing darkness of oblivion.

_**A/N: Please feel free to read and review! I am so, so sorry for the wait but exams are next week and much as I need to get this chapter off my chest; I fear that it will be my last one for quite some time - courtesy of A-Levels - damn you horrible public exams! Comments, suggestions and constructive criticisms are like chocolate to my brain and will keep me going through revision! Much love and enjoy x**_


	10. The Tigers Come at Night

_**A/N: I'M ALIVE! Exams are over! I never have to sit another paper until Uni! Woohoo! No more A-Levels! **_

_** OK... slight mental, tearful freak out over... This chapter is for all the wonderful people who have believed in me and in this story; namely Sarahbob, TotaltheMax and Rainwillmaketheflowersgrow who have all been incredible in acting as rocks with their determination to read more of this- you guys are all incredible and I love you all dearly and thank you from the bottom of my heart! Much love x**_

_**Disclaimer: As I am not Male, French or living in C19th Paris- how can I possibly own Les Miserables? I am simply trying to convey my love for Les Amis de l'ABC into something cohesive- please don't sue me!**_

The Tigers Come At Night

Slowly, they begin to fall into a routine in this strange, new reality that they have found themselves thrown into_. If a routine could be the term given to the day to day existence of a group of battered French Republican rebels sheltering in the house of their leaders' sister from the full force of the tyrannical Louis Philippe and his National Guard, _Combeferre thinks dryly as he marks Gavroche's arithmetic with one of Grantaire's artist pencils; curled up in a chair next to Enjolras' bed, spectacles perched perilously on the end of his nose as he squints through the flickering, guttering lamp light at the swirling dark grey shapes that spiel out across the flattened wood pulp crossed with inky blue lines in a ribbon of charcoal. It is evening and the lamps are low; the flickering yellow flames dancing across the shadowy walls of a room that stinks of fraternal companionship as a silver slice of moonlight falls through the high slashed window coating everything in a bath of silver brilliance.

Laying the pencil aside and marking his place with a scrap of ribbon, he removes his spectacles with a weary hand and rubs his exhausted eyes; allowing them to flicker over the cramped room that is full to bursting point with bodies crowded around the large bed with its mound of sheets and pillows where in sits Enjolras who is trying to teach Gavroche how to play chess. _He is Apollo; albeit a cracked and broken imitation of the golden God; still a flickering shadow of his palpable fiery splendour, body thin and weak from the fever's fiery, perverted embrace; cheeks hollow from the hacking coughs which continue to slowly disintegrate his broken lungs; a statue in desperate need of an artist's loving caress in order to reshape the clay and paint the glaze until he can be whole and pure in all his godlike glory once more, but Apollo all the same. Apollo surrounded by his Muses, all devoted in the task of slowly putting their golden leader back together again, piece by painful piece._

Combeferre feels a ghost of a smile that is still tinged with anxiety tug at the corners of his mouth as he realises just how like Grantaire in the heat of one of his drunken ramblings he sounds, even to himself; a far cry from his usual calm, logical composure. He feels the smile tug painfully at his lips as he watches Enjolras try and explain to Gavroche in a hushed, husky whisper about the importance of protecting his pawns and feels his heart lift slightly in his chest as he sees the gamin's eyes widen slightly as the older boy deftly catches one of the jet black pawns with his knight of shining ivory.

The golden angel is thinner than Combeferre would really like, the cotton nightshirt hanging loosely off his emaciated frame which is open at the neck, the strings lying loosely against the pale skin that still holds a faint blush of the fever's nagging fire; so that a glimpse of the many bandages caressing his broken chest are just visible. His electric eyes are drooping slightly with a mixture of exhaustion and supressed pain; the icy irises still clouded somewhat by the nagging remnants of the fever that has enfolded him in its fiery embrace for so long and is still refusing to let him evade its grasp completely. Gavroche shifts slightly in annoyance as he watches Enjolras deftly capture his last remaining bishop with his queen; stubby fingers automatically reaching up to tug awkwardly at the newly acquired, itchy starched shirt collar that Courfeyrac with the help of Cosette and the promise of getting the first pick at Cook's newest batch of biscuits had managed to wrestle the gamin into that morning. Gavroche had relented, only on the condition that he got to decorate said biscuits with sugar icing and help hand them round at tea before finally consenting to the infernal contraption being buttoned into place.

Courfeyrac, who is surveying proceedings with a slight smirk dancing on his lips, reaches out to ruffle the gamins' mop of dirty blonde curls whilst strategically capturing one of Enjolras' lone pawns that their fearless leader had left unguarded. Seeing this, Enjolras huffs in annoyance and proceeds to continue his silent coup de état by cornering Gavroche's king into check; carefully and painfully manoeuvring his queen with his good hand whilst trying not to upset his sling.

'Checkmate', his voice; so usually filled with the roaring flames of passionate hope for his beloved Patria is husky from lack of use as Gavroche stares at him with wide, incredulous eyes; his glaze flickering from one face to the other; lips pouted in annoyance as he takes in the slow grin spreading across Courfeyrac's lips and Enjolras's tight, pained smile as he gazes back down at the board and then back up at his friends; these boys who have welcomed him into their pack with laughing smiles and whispered kisses before shrugging and slipping off the bed. Combeferre watches him weave his way deftly across the packed floor with a slight smile dancing across his lips to where Grantaire is trying to sketch Cosette and Marius who are reading Wordsworth or some such Romantic poet in translation that none of them save Combeferre have ever heard of by the flickering light of the guttering table lamp. The soft French phrases filter through the heady atmosphere, the steady iambic pentameter floating on Cosette's lark like tones cocooning everything into safety as she curls up next to Marius; one hand resting protectively on his good arm as he gazes down at her; soft brown eyes filled with silent, passionate adoration for his angel. His lark that he intends to propose to as soon as Combeferre allows him out of bed for stretches of time longer than half an hour.

'Tough luck Mon Ami', Enjolras' voice is little more than a hoarse whisper that is laced with exhaustion as his good hand crashes against the board; sending the remaining pieces flying across the snowy white coverlet. 'Damn it', he mutters, the words slurring slightly as he desperately tries to fight the unstoppable force of oncoming exhaustion that is threatening to overwhelm him; more to himself than to anyone else as he tries to sit up straighter; a flickering wince of pain escaping dry lips as the shattered muscles in his leg contract in silent, screaming agony. Combeferre's eyes flick upwards and in an instant he is beside the bed; one steadying hand gripping his friends' shoulder in silent reassurance as he feels Enjolras' warm, comforting weight lean into him, feeling the numb digits of his good hand fall into his open palm and squeeze painfully as the sudden burst of icy fire ebbs away, blue eyes gazing up into his own in silent desperation. _'It hurts 'Ferre. Why does it hurt? Why does it hurt this badly? I… I thought…'_

A whispered, suddenly salty kiss caresses the marble forehead and Combeferre sinks to his knees, blinking back the sudden, painful pricks of emotion dancing at the corners of his eyelids as his hand snakes across the marble chest; fingers dancing as gently as they can over the cotton that hides the multiple bandages cocooning his best friends' broken lungs into safety. A faint groan escapes the bitten lips as another flurry of pain chases itself through the battered body as he feels the haloed head turn into his chest, biting back the sudden, fiery, hacking cough that threatens to throttle him once again as Combeferre brushes a stray lock of gold out of the wide, blue eyes still dancing with the ashes of the fever's fire. '_I don't know 'Jol. I just don't know. I wish… Oh Mon Cher… I wish I could take all the pain away… I would take all the pain away, you know I would. We all would, you know that. Please be brave Mon Petit, it'll all be over soon, I promise…'_

Combeferre's heart twists painfully in his chest as he feels his hands tighten around Enjolras' trembling frame; clutching him into a capable embrace, a lone finger reaching up to trace the quivering chin; never even thinking for a moment about letting him go as the fiery, hacking coughs continue to throttle him into submission. Thick fingers begin to entwine themselves in a mop of golden curls; slowly carding themselves through the tangled locks with all the care and devotion of a mother bear grooming a wayward cub as Enjolras sighs brokenly as the coughs begin to subside into ragged, jarring breaths landing choked and broken against his heart. Faintly, he hears the creak of a door being pushed open as he allows his fingers to continue drifting through the golden curls; feeling the mattress groan in protest as another body sinks gracefully down beside him; the warm, slim weight of Henriette a bolstering comfort as she smiles down at her brother slumped in exhaustion against his chest.

'_Patience is bitter, but its fruit is sweet'*_, a soft hand traces the line of the marble cheek as a whispered, contented sigh escapes the virgin lips; Rousseau's familiar mantra making him feel suddenly light headed as he sinks into Henriette's comforting bosom. A faint trace of an exhausted smile dance across cold lips as a second pair of fingers continue to card through his hair. Fingers that still hold a faint, lingering odour of honeyed lavender as a whispered kiss sweeps the marble forehead and the exhausted body slumps back into the waiting embrace as Henriette presses the water glass to the icy lips which accept the frigid liquid with grateful, silent thanks.

'You…you…' the words are muffled against the fabric of Henriette's robe; the ends slurring slightly; faded from a deathly combination of exhaustion and suppressed pain as she kisses him again; a tender, whispered kiss that flies over the marble forehead, silencing him into safety. Enjolras pulls away from the kiss and tries again; lolling tongue stumbling painfully over the words as the blissful cloak of dark oblivion steadily pulls itself over his exhausted self; making any sense of rational impossible for his usually furiously active mind. Combeferre can't bear it as he watches his friend struggle over the words that not long ago would have slipped like honeyed silk from his tongue; flicking his gaze over to Courfeyrac who nods in silent understanding and moves away over to where Feuilly, Gavroche and Henriette's nine year old son Georges are watching Grantaire's creation take shape under the thick fingers stained with dust and darkness; the charcoal flying like a black swallow over the crisp, white artists paper procured by Toussaint on a visit to the local market with Henriette's maid Anna. Combeferre likes Georges, he's tall for his age and although he's younger than him, is kind to Gavroche; even offering to teach gamin how to fish when they next go down to the lake below the farm. A tall, stocky nine-year-old with a mop of reddish brown hair and a plain face completed by large, wide, greeny-brown eyes and a smattering of freckles caressing his broken nose makes the guide think instantly and inexplicably of Bahorel as he watches him throw an amicable hand over the smaller boys' shoulder and grin toothily at Grantaire who smirks back in reply.

_Bahorel, the gentle giant of __Les Amis de l'ABC.__ Bahorel with his receding mop of reddish brown hair and broken nose; dark eyes dancing with silent mischief as he listened intently to Enjolras discussing his plans for their next bid for recruits to the cause; a glint of mischievous delight leaping high in wide, dark pupils at the thought of another possible protest against the tyrannical Bourgeois regime that he hated with all his heart. Bahorel swinging Gavroche onto his shoulders as he piggybacked the snow soaked gamin over to Enjolras' table cluttered with used ink bottles, maps and charts of France and Paris itself by the fire to get warm and relay the latest news from the slums of St Michel. _

_Bahorel with his deep infectious laugh rumbling loudly through the packed Café as he beat a very disgruntled Courfeyrac at cards, almost upsetting an intoxicated Grantaire's empty bottle of Absinthe that the cynic still clutched at protectively in a steadily weakening grasp. Bahorel stumbling into the haze of anxious anticipation that had enfolded the top room of the Café Musain in a clutching embrace, battered and bruised when the last barricade of the 1830 revolution had finally fallen. The gentle, courageous fighter who adored his friends, staggering into their fragile haven; supporting a semi conscious Jehan, one limp, tattered arm slung over his shoulder as he stumbled into their midst. Jehan, whose thin, freckled face and wide honey coloured eyes had been marred by a mask of brutal bruising; as he gently eased the trembling, half-conscious poet into a chair with a whispered kiss falling from thick, trembling lips before calling in a loud voice that was rough with anxious emotion for Combeferre to come and help him. _

_Combeferre still remembers Jehan's injuries. Can still recite his prognosis, diagnosis and treatment word for word, even now; two years on, as he had searched the thin, battered face for any flicker of recognition; one trembling finger slowly reaching up to brush a blood caked curl of ginger hair out of the pale face as the poet's head lolled into the dependable security of Bahorel's chest; bloodied lips parted slightly as he had struggled for breath. Concussion. Two broken ribs. Possibility of a punctured lung due to gunshot wound to chest. Broken nose. Compulsory bed rest and observation from his willingly devoted friends for at least two weeks if not more. Ah, what a waste! Such a bitterly, tragic waste of a life that had been filled with such bright, hopeful potential and yet was deemed only fit enough to be snapped cruelly short on an icy June dawn by the resounding rapport of a bayonet chorus as the shivering, battered body shouted a final farewell to the beloved Revolution. 'Vive la __France! Vive l'avenir!'_

_He still hears the flickering wince of pain echoing through the packed room that stunk of feverish anxiety for those not yet returned. A wince that had brought Courfeyrac who was helping Joly tend to Bossuet who had suffered from a jagged cut to the temple courtesy of a flying shard of glass hurrying over with a bowl of water, stained crimson with the slowly unravelling tendrils of hydrated blood and a clean cloth; hazel eyes wide with worry._

_Still sees Enjolras' exhausted eyes widen slightly as the bloody, battered and yet resolute Archangel finally stumbled into the safety of their haven, trailing the spicy fire of gunpowder combined with the cloying, metallic stink of blood behind him like a fog; his scarlet jacket torn and caked with day old blood and shit that had enfolded itself around him like a second skin. The chief taking in his bruised, bloodied band of stubborn revolutionary dreamers still clinging resolutely to his side as they watched him; eyes wide with apprehension for his next command. Still sees the shaking, marble fingers clenched tightly around the fractured remnants of a broken carbine as he had made a customary roll call; electric blue eyes still filled with the leaping flames of passionate fire flickering, checking, reassuring himself as each of his friends with the exception of the poet who had been slumped in unconsciousness in Bahorel's capable, clutching embrace answered to their names with ringing, exhausted conviction. Bahorel, their gentle, passionate, courageous fighter; now little more than a blank faced corpse; lying face down on the cobblestones of Rue St Denis; his sweet, scarlet sacrifice to his beloved country now only remembered by the dusty stones that had soaked up the blood of the martyrs who had willingly sacrificed themselves in a desperate, futile hope that a new world would one day rise up out of the smouldering ashes of the old in all its fiery splendour. _

The sound of a door being slid shut jolts Combeferre out of the dark, spiralling abyss of his memories like a quick, painful twist to the wrist. Blinking, he looks up to see M. Frauchlevent framed in the doorway still fully dressed; save for his waistcoat which, like the rest of the men in the house has been discarded for shirt sleeves in a desperate attempt to evade the oppressive mid-June heat that spirals in visible waves off the cracked, parched earth; enfolding the choking house into a tight, claustrophobic embrace. Behind him, he can just make out Madame Flora and Adrienne; their hair long and loose; tumbling over their shoulders in manes of contrasting gold and ebony who slip into the room like silver swans; Flora to her children and Adrienne to Grantaire who is making the final, flourishing touches to his sketch of Marius and Cosette, a slight smile tugging at the corners of his mouth as he surveys his potential masterpiece. But something's not right. Combeferre can sense it. Can see it in the look of grim determination in those wide, grey eyes which flash over the scene; one hand clenched tightly over what looks to Combeferre like a newspaper. His mind is racing; half formed thoughts tumbling through the dark cavenous abyss of his brain that make no sense and yet… _What on earth?_

He throws a quick, searching glance at Courfeyrac who shrugs; hazel eyes reflecting the same palpable confusion that is lapping at the base of his throat like flickering flames of molten fire. Instantaneously, his gaze races itself back to Enjolras and Henriette whose already pale faces are set and white as Flora pulls their broken, golden God into her arms and extends a hand to her daughter who takes the digits in a soft, reassuring squeeze before scrambling up onto the mattress beside her brother. Enjolras pulls out of the embrace painfully; eyes suddenly frozen into ice; only the inky pupils alive; dancing with a badly supressed confused fear as he grips his Mothers' hand; eyes flicking desperately over the apprehensive, fearful faces of his friends, trying to reassure himself that for now, all is not lost.

Out of the corner of Combeferre's eye, he sees Grantaire silently pack up his artist materials and stand with Adrienne, Feuilly, Cosette, Marius, Gavroche and Georges; the two children clasping Feuilly's hands, fingers scrabbling in a suddenly sweaty palm for the security of another's touch as they gaze at M. Frauchlevent's stern expression with huge, terrified eyes. Adrienne's hand rests lightly in the cynic's trembling palm; two pairs of wide, dark eyes huge with fearful anticipation as they watch their white haired saviour slowly close the door and turn back towards the silently expectant room. Grantaire's expression is unreadable, but Combeferre knows the cynic well enough by now to understand that behind the temporary walls thrown up behind the dark green eyes; his mind will be in turmoil; sudden, desperate conclusions flying through the dark abyss of his brain; figures and facts, ideas that make no sense whatsoever. _What…? No… They can't have been discovered… How can they have been? They weren't followed… Were they? No… Please… Not now… No… Not when… Not Enjolras… Not Apollo… Not after everything… 'Make sure the others get out alive… Please… They'll listen to you… Promise me…'_

Cosette makes to go to her father, to ask him what has happened; what could have possibly happened; but Marius' grip on her arm tightens and she turns back; blue-grey eyes meeting brown with a look of pleading anxiety etched on her fine features like ink. He shakes his head sadly; his gaze looking past her pale, determined anxiety for boys she barely knows and yet by some miracle have become the family she has never known; falling on M. Frauchlevent who smiles grimly before crossing the room and handing the paper over to Combeferre in silent invitation.

'Page five', his voice is little more than a hoarse croak as his eyes land on Enjolras; full of silent, desperate regret for bringing in yet more pain to these men, these boys who have already seen more agony, more suffering than a human being should ever be held witness to and yet have still survived; pure and whole in the knowledge and warmth of their friendship. His heart goes out to them; silently fluttering through the spiralling, uncertain tension on silver wings. 'I'm sorry'.

The weight of the flattened wood pulp seems oddly alien between numb, shaking digits as Combeferre fights to hold it steady; eyes widening as they scan over the typeography that is steadily spiralling out into a long, illegible scrawl of black ink before his shattered eyelids as his brain fights to process the English words which he has known for years and yet suddenly sound as alien to his brain as if he were reading Chinese characters. He has to read the headline twice before it finally creates any sense of meaning for his temporary jammed mind. And again. And yet it still refuses to make perfect sense because this isn't happening. _It can't be happening. Not now. Not after they'd been through so much and still survived. Not after… Not when… Not now… How could they have known? How do they know? _He suddenly can't breathe; his lungs compressed against his heart, the oxygen fighting fruitlessly against the steadily rising barricade of white hot terror that is surging up his barren throat like lava; incinerating everything into fine, black ash. _Breathe Henri. Just breathe. It's not what you think it is. It can't be…. Please, tell me it's not…_ He is so caught up in his desperate mental mantra that he doesn't feel the shaking pressure on his shoulder and only looks round when he feels thick hands cup his chin; trembling fingers tracing his cheek in silent, desperate anxiety.

''Ferre? What is it? What's… what's happened?' Closing his eyes for a fraction of a second; he blinks up at Courfeyrac's terrified face inches from his own as the trembling grip on his shoulder tightens instinctively. The hazel eyes are alive with fearful worry as they dance over to where Enjolras sits up in bed; blue eyes radiating with confusion as his gaze flies from friend to friend and back again. _'I'm sorry Mon Petit. So sorry'._

He can't reply. Can't move. Can't think. He's paralysed to the spot, numb fingers suddenly drenched in icy sweat still clutching at the paper; staring passed Courfeyrac's anxious eyes into the fires leaping high in his chief's inky irises and yet all he sees is a blank faced corpse; the sapphire orbs blindfolded, the golden curls stiff with a stinking scarlet halo, the alabaster skin sullied by a dark necklace of weeping bullet holes as the rapport rings out... Sudden, unbidden vomit rises through his throat like molten fire and he barely has time to choke it back before it erupts through his barren mouth in a volcano of fiery phlegm.

''Fey… 'Feyrac… I…' Dimly, he sees the pieces fly into place behind Courfeyrac's widening eyes as he snatches the paper out of his trembling, weakening grasp before it falls and the comforting coldness of something metal is forced under his quivering chin. He feels his knees give way as the fiery vomit cascades into the jug; his whole body shuddering under the weight of supressed emotion. Scalding, salty tears prick painfully at the back of his eyelids and he lets them fall as the choking coughs even out into shuddering, sobbing gasps landing choked and broken against the glass, the fiery vomit leaving his mouth painfully raw as he gasps for the sweet tang of oxygen. 'We've… The police…' He feels his eyes slip shut and tries again, forcing himself to make some sense of a situation that he really doesn't want to believe. And all the while he can feel the appalled horror of his friends' gazes intensify with every passing second_. Just breathe Henri. And yet breathing seems to be an impossible dream at the present moment, so he begins to count his heart beats instead; each thudding iamb throbbing painfully through the thin cotton of his shirt. I. 2. 3. 4. 5. Just breathe… They'll understand… It'll be alright… It's going to be alright. It's got to be alright. 6. 7. 8. 9. 10. _The silence that has suddenly enfolded the world into a clutching perverted embrace so completely stretches for what feels to Combeferre like an enternity but is only the length of a ragged, jarring breath. Stretches. Billows. Snaps.

'The police know about us. They know about Enjolras.'

**_A/N: Please feel free to read and review! Questions, suggestions, comments and constructive critcisisms are like chocolate to my brain! Much love and enjoy x_**

**_Note on text: _**

_**'Patience is bitter but its' fruit is sweet' : Jean Jacques Rosseau- In memory of the fallen who gave their lives for Patria on 5-6th June 1832 (I know it's late but better late than never!)**_


	11. Blood Soaked Memories

_**A/N: Another chapter for all the wonderful people who have given up their time to read, review, follow and favourite this story! You have no idea how much it means to me to know that my work is appreciated and I love you and thank you from the bottom of my heart! **_**_  
_**

_**Disclaimer: As I am not Male, French or living in C19th Paris, how can I possibly own Les Miserables? I am simply trying to convey my love for a certain blonde revolutionary into something cohesive! Please don't sue me! Much love and enjoy x**_

Blood Soaked Memories

Nobody sleeps that night. Lying in bed, Enjolras tumbles through periods of fitful dozing only to be dragged further under Morpheus' blood soaked spell as he falls helplessly through the dark nothingness of oblivion; forced to listen and watch flashes of light and colour that initially make little sense to his broken mind as he desperately searches for some form of relief from this unknown, bloody Hell that he has found himself thrown into. But somehow; by some cruel twist of Fate, the memories do make sense and he can't think why or where or how they fit into this muddled puzzle of his strange new life but the very idea that they do terrifies him as he struggles; desperately trying to throw off the thick, dark cloak of sleep and yet all the while feeling it slowly choke him into submission before realising that it is too late and allowing himself to fall backwards into the darkest crevices of his shattered mind.

Dimly, in the rare moments of lucidity granted in this endless, blood soaked nightmare he supposes that the Laudanum that Combeferre had given him laced in a cup of camomile tea sweetened with honey to take the bitter edge off the pain that continues to clutch him in a hard embrace in order to help him sleep has some part to play in this endless, perverted torture of his fractured self but he cannot tell for certain. All he knows is dark, blood soaked pain and memories. Endless memories of a time and place that he knows he will never truly forget; however hard he tries.

_Jehan kneeling on the blood soaked cobbles; thin, battered body shivering in the icy June dawn as he shouted his final farewell to the beloved revolution; bright, honey coloured eyes filled with youthful passion blinded as the chattering chorus of bayonets consumed him and he was lost forever. Just a boy, a child of eighteen, the baby of his friends, just a child… Oh God… I'm so sorry… 'And yet you could have saved him', a voice inside the darkest crevices of his shattered conscious leers; a laughing, sadistic leer that reminds him horribly of the Inspector who had infiltrated the barricade and whose voice he really hopes that he never has to hear again. A voice that haunts his darkest moments as it laughs a high, sadistic laugh before throwing both Courfeyrac and Grantaire to the ground with a rearing lunge towards the marble lover of liberty…. 'But you didn't, did you? You had no idea that he had been taken, did you? No idea that as you celebrated the return of the Bonapartist, he was tortured, the innocent poet, the lover of flowers and verses and Liberty….' And he's screaming silent, desperate cries that fall on deaf ears as the voice continues to laugh…. No… Please no… Not Jehan… Please… I didn't… I tried… Oh Mon Ami… My poet… I'm sorry…. So sorry… Please… Forgive me Mon Ami… Mon Cher…._

'_Oh you're sorry, are you?' The voice is distinctly and horribly sarcastic now as it observes his fruitless struggles, a slight smile tugging at the words he so dearly wants to block out; desperately trying to reach the slim frame of the poet lying on the dusty cobblestones; looking for all the world like a marionette whose strings have been cut… 'But he wasn't the first, was he?' The question has a lilt of childish innocence to it which makes the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end as a river of panicked sweat erupts on the back of his trembling hands which he balls into fists; refusing to give in to the tantalizing well of dark emotion tugging at the corners of his fractured mind. But all the while he knows what will come next, what guilt ridden torments he he will have to face, what pain he will have to endure…._

_And yet the voice continues to laugh; that high pitched, eerie laugh as the memories continue to change and he is being dragged under a swirling oblivion of dark rainbows, unable to move, unable to cry out, unable to do anything except submit because he knows that the pain will only get worse if he fights and yet somewhere something or someone is telling him that he has to fight, that he can't give up, that he has to lead them, his battered band of revolutionary dreamers and yet how can he? He who is nothing more than a broken leader, a cracked statue, a pitiful excuse for a human being who deserves to die, who wanted to die fighting for freedom, fighting so that his beloved Patria could one day rise up like the fiery Phoenix he knows she can be out of the ashes of the old Bourgeois tyranny and yet for some inexplicable reason Fate has not felt it fit to end it all when so many others silver threads were snapped cruelly short between her merciless shears… Oh my friends, my friends, forgive me!_

'_Bahorel, I think? Or was it the girl? The gamine', the term is spat out of the darkness like poison and Enjolras feels his blood boil with an unfathomable rage that he does not understand completely as it crashes over his exhausted self in white waves of silent, fearful fury. 'She should not have died'. The voice continues reflectively; almost sadly as his exhausted, tear filled eyes are forced to watch Éponine Thenardier lying in Marius' clutching embrace; a scarlet stain steadily seeping across her rain soaked blouse as her hair fell from her cap; the mane of inky ebony slick with a stinking, scarlet sacrifice as she clutches at the Bonapartists' hand watching the soft brown eyes fill with silver tears as he presses his trembling, salt stained lips to her forehead and cradles her to his chest in a desperate attempt to rekindle the flickering, failing flame of life once more. A slow, scarlet stream dribbles from her parted lips as the wide, pleading eyes flicker for a final time; searching, pleading with the soft brown eyes of the Bonapartist as the light of life is finally and completely extinguished._

_He can feel tears in his own eyes; sudden pricks of fiery emotion as he watches Marius continue to whisper to the lifeless corpse as he stands in the shadows, eyes flickering over the rest of his battered band of revolutionary dreamers, refusing to believe that this could be the end. Out of the corner of his shattered vision, he sees Gavroche standing in a secluded corner in the shadow of the Musain, silent tears coursing down his thin cheeks as Courfeyrac pulls the silently sobbing gamin into a clutching embrace… Oh Gavroche… Mon Petit… I'm sorry… Desperately, he tries to call out to Gavroche, to Courfeyrac, to Marius, to anyone, anyone at all; but his cries are cut short by a useless, lolling tongue lying thick and dormant within a bloody mouth as Morpheus drags him further down into the fractured remains of his broken mind. _

_No… Please… Let me go… I've seen enough… I've heard enough… I know I failed them… Please… Let me go…. I know… It's my fault… My poet… My medic… My fighter… My survivor… It's my fault... All my fault… I'm sorry… Bahorel… Bossuet… Eponine Thenardier… Jehan… Joly… And the students… The countless, nameless students and workers who had rallied so valiantly to Freedom's scarlet banner and who were now little more than blank faced corpses, corpses who were only remembered by the dusty cobblestones that had soaked up their sweet scarlet sacrifice… Such a waste… Such bright, eager, hopeful minds only deemed fit enough to be sliced short with as much care as a farmer sheathing a field of wheat at harvest time! Oh my friends, my friends forgive me! _

_But the voice simply laughs at this and continues to pull him further into nothingness as fiery pricks of salty pain erupt at the corners of his eyelids. He lets them fall, feeling the burning heat sear his skin as they coarse down his cheeks and relishes in the fact that at last something is real in this hellish dream-reality that he has found himself thrown into and yet willingly himself not to give into the comforting dark well of emotion that is tugging tantalizingly at the corners of his brain…_

_When the darkness clears once more he finds himself standing on the edge of the barricade; watching in disbelieving horror as his dreams are slowly picked apart until they are nothing more than scarlet ribbons fluttering pitifully in an icy June dawn. Watching as young men he barely knows and yet are somehow connected to him through their passionate adoration for freedom fight and fall in the name of Patria as Fate bundles up yet more insignificant lives to be trimmed before their time and thrown away into the nothingness of oblivion._

_From his perch he can just make out the shadowy figure of Bahorel fighting for all he was worth; carbine and musket now discarded as he ran at the dark mass that was the barricade of the National Guardsmen; roaring an anamatistic cry of rage as he watched Jehan being dragged behind their walls only to be cut short by a bayonet thrust to the chest. Desperately Enjolras tries to reach him; reach his courageous, passionate fighter before it is too late, willing for his brain to be deceiving him even though he knows that it's not as Bahorel crashes to the ground; choking on his own blood as the mighty Oak is finally felled and yet his whole body is pinioned to the spot; unable to do anything but watch as the carnage steadily unravels itself before exhausted eyes and there is nothing he can do… There was nothing he could have done about it because he had not seen it… He had been on a distant edge on the west side of their great mound and had not even thought… Had not even considered… Oh God… Bahorel… I am so sorry… Forgive me! I didn't know… None of us knew… Can you forgive me Mon Ami? Can you forgive any of us poor fools? The voice simply laughs at his pain; laughs and laughs until he feels himself clamp shaking hands over ringing ears and falls painfully to his knees as a choking sob crashes through a bloody mouth and he's begging for it to stop; pleading with whatever is torturing him for it to be over… _

_Make it stop… Please… Please just make it stop… I know…. I didn't… I couldn't… I tried Mes Amis… My friends… My brothers… I failed… Oh Patria… I'm sorry… But still the vision is changing and he feels himself being flung once more into darkness; unable to breathe, unable to fight although he wants to fight, he needs to fight; he needs to vent out all the suppressed fury that is bubbling up inside his aching chest and force the voice back. But he can't. He knows he can't as he tries to form the words that once; long ago would have come as naturally to his silver tongue like breathing but all he tastes now is the cloying, metallic stink of fiery blood bubbling through a parched throat and he can't breathe… Dimly, he feels the fiery, hacking cough surge through his broken lungs as the voice continues to laugh long and hard at his suffering, relishing in his pain as he struggles for the sweet tang of oxygen. 'And who was next? Which soldier did you send unwillingly to an early grave, hmm Enjolras? The marble lover of liberty, they call you now…' _

_The voice tails away and he glares at the darkness with as much venom as his shattered gaze can muster; feeling the embers in his eyes flicker and fade as the voice smiles in mocking sympathy at him. 'Apollo, they call you. The God of Prophecy.' A harsh bark of laughter follows these words and he can't help but think of Grantaire slumped in his usual place in the Musain clutching an empty bottle of Absinthe whilst quoting in a harsh drunken slur that echoed through the packed café from the Iliad.__Achilles. Patroklos. Apollo. Apollo had been Patroklos' downfall, he remembers that now. Apollo had aided the Trojan Paris into felling the mighty golden haired Achilles at his weakest point. His heel. His Achilles heel. Was that what his friends, his brothers, his stubborn band of revolutionary dreamers was to him now? An Achilles heel? He doesn't know. He doesn't anything any more apart from the single fact that he wants this hell to be over. A faint groan of pained despair flutters through bloody lips as he looks into the darkness through bloody eyes; silently begging for this torture to be over; for it all to be over; for him to be back in bed with Combeferre, Courfeyrac and Henriette at his side and not trapped in this Hell of his own making. It's my fault… It's all my fault… But the darkness simply laughs at this and smiles down at him in mocking sympathy before he feels himself being dragged under once again; unable to breathe, unable to think, unable to acknowledge anything except the excruciating agony of loss._

_It's cold. So cold. He can feel the trembling gooseflesh jump through the thin cotton of his shirt as he stands beside the broken window; watching through bloody eyes as his hopeless, childish dreams for a free France are slowly shredded until they are nothing but scraps of scarlet, blood soaked ribbon blowing pitifully in an icy dawn. He's standing in his scarlet jacket and black trousers; the tricolour cockade pinned to his lapel turned inwards; the edges frayed and stained with a crusted scarlet rim of blood; as if it too knows that this is the end. He's waiting, but for what he doesn't know. Dimly, he thinks he can hear the steady tramping footfalls of the National Guard but whether that's in his head or in reality he has no idea. Faintly he can feel the jarring, jagged pressure of a broken carbine resting in an icy, blood stained palm. A broken weapon that slips of its own accord through numb, shaking, sweat soaked digits and crashes onto the bare wooden floorboards, splintering at his feet._

'_Enjolras? 'Jolras, Mon Ami; what are you doing here?' He glances up through exhausted eyes at the voice as his heart jumps painfully into his throat and settles there, throbbing in a jarring, disjointed rhythm against his Adam's apple. A voice which he last heard crying out to Combeferre as he desperately tried to hold onto the flickering flame of luckless life, kneeling beside Bossuet, eyes the colour of autumn leaves swimming with salty silver as he fruitlessly tried to staunch the steady scarlet stain seeping from the bald man's abdomen._

_Joly. Oh Joly… My medic, I'm sorry! So sorry Mon Ami! But the apologies he could beg the medic to accept are cut short by a useless, lolling tongue lying thick and heavy in a bloody mouth as Joly shakes his head sadly, one trembling hand reaching up to grip his shoulder in silent companionship; the tight smile playing at the corners of his mouth a flickering ghost of his usual dark eyed laughter. 'Don't be', the words are marred with silent, desperate regret which seems so alien to a voice so usually bubbling with mirth at his own ridiculousness that Enjolras has to blink. Oh Joly… What have I done to you? What did I do to you?_

_ 'I…' The words are caught in his throat, words that are cut short as Joly squeezes his shoulder again and sighs; dark eyes flickering over the broken remains of their home, their haven in which they had hoped, had planned, had dreamed of releasing their beloved Motherland from the tyrannical hands of the Bourgeois. Dreams that had been sliced short with a thrust of a bayonet or the crackling chorus of the firing squad, pinioned by a weeping necklace of bullet holes as he watches them fall over and over again, knowing there is nothing he can do to help them and yet wishing, cursing his own hot headed stupidity … _

_His guide, his best friend, his brother in all but blood with his large dark eyes staring blindly up at a sky he cannot see, wire-framed spectacles slipping down his nose and all he wants is for Combeferre to reach up a large, delicate hand and push them out of harms way … No 'Ferre... Not Combeferre... No...No! Please wake up 'Ferre... Mon Ami... Mon Cher... Wake up! Please... I need you...  
_

_His centre, the glue of Les Amis de l'ABC with the ghost of a last laugh frozen on parted lips, his inky blue cravat sullied to rusted brown by his scarlet sacrifice, his mop of ebony curls stiff with a halo of blood and dirt…__'Feyrac... Wake up Courfeyrac... Please wake up, I need you... _

_His medic… Joly's hands slick with blood as they scrabble in plaintive supplication for a world that was cruelly wrenched from a failing, weakening grasp, large dark eyes flickering, failing, the light of passionate life snuffed out at last.._

_His poet… Jehan's thin, pale form shivering in the cold June dawn as he shouted his final farewell to the beloved revolution: 'Vive la France! Vive l'avenir!' Just a boy, a child, the baby of his friends... _

_His fighter… Bahorel felled with as much thought as an Oak crashing down to Earth; his large, plain face broken and bruised beyond recognition... _

_His survivor… Bossuet wearing a jaunty Revolutionary's cap of stinking scarlet as he clutched at his abdomen, the stinking blood seeping through the soft pads of shaking fingers, desperately trying to reassure a silently weeping Joly in his gravelly voice that was thick with luckless cheer that they would be together soon..._

_ His cynic… A mop of dark hair appearing at the top of the stairs; wide dark eyes full of dread understanding as they danced with a strange, sober light... Oh Grantaire, you could have stayed, could have survived to continue this failed dream and yet he feels the pressure of a shaking calloused palm rising to meet his own, desperate for the security of another's touch, voice thick and hoarse with emotion... 'Do you permit it?' _

_His artisan… Feuilly who lies with his jaw blown apart so all the remains is a bloody, gaping mess; the quiet, orphan fan maker whose love of history, literature and Poland had brought a smile to the heady atmosphere of feverish anticipation in the last few weeks before the revolution... _

_ Little Gavroche… Gavroche, his scout of the slums of St Michel, his honouree member of Les Amis de l'ABC; blonde curls stiff with a weeping halo of stinking scarlet, bright blue eyes blank as the ferocious light of life is snuffed out with as much care as a hand being cupped over a candle as he cradles the gamin to his chest; desperately trying to reignite the leaping, laughing flame of life once more and yet knowing that it is too late.._

_ Eponine… The wide eyed gamine with the mane of inky ebony trailing over Combeferre's arm as he carried the corpse bridal style towards the flickering lights of the Musain, the wound to her chest weeping with a sacrifice of hot, stinking scarlet..._

_ Marius… The lovesick Bonapartist with the wide, soft brown eyes now glazed and distant as he collapsed to the cobblestones, a sliver of scarlet trickling in a river of red down his pale, passionate, freckled face... The Bonapartist whom he had never seen eye to eye with and yet... And yet... Flashes of the barricade rush back through his screaming brain, of Marius fighting for all he was worth; head coated in a scarlet revolutionary's cap of blood as he was felled by a sudden bayonet thrust racing up behind him and dragged away by the white haired saviour..._

'_We knew what we were fighting for 'Jolras', the sound of Joly's voice; the silver thread of passionate hope that he clings to with all his might brings him spiralling back into reality like a quick, painful twist to the wrist. But had they? Had any of them, any of the students, the boys who had rallied so valiantly to his scarlet banner really understood? 'All of us. We knew what might happen. It's not your fault, truly Mon Ami.' But it is! Oh if only Joly could see how much he had failed him, failed them, failed France… If only he could understand..._

_More tears prick painfully at the back of his eyelids and he doesn't have the strength to blink them back. He doesn't have the strength to try and fight the pain, the loss, the constant, gnawing grief-stricken heartache that is clawing at him; forcing him to surrender to its dark embrace. Joly's dark eyes are sparkling with tears as the grip on his shoulder weakens and to his horror he sees the medic's slight form slowly fade away into the oblivion of nothingness until only the voice remains; a flickering flame of guttering hope that he cannot quite get a firm grip onto. No Joly… No… Please don't leave me…. _

_'You have to go back 'Jolras. Bossuet's being quite insistent about that. As is Jehan. They need you back Mon Ami. Really. I don't want to think…Don't forget us Mon Ami... We won't forget you'. He shakes his head, eyes suddenly blinded with tears that he does not have the strength to shed because he won't forget. He can't forget. Desperately he tries to tell Joly this, to reassure him that their sacrifice will not be in vain, but the voice is tailing away; fading into nothingness until he is suddenly and completely alone, the silent tears coursing without restraint down his marble cheeks as he shivers in the icy silence. It's all my fault. All of it… Oh my friends, my friends, don't ask me what your sacrifice was for!_

'_Go back 'Jolras. They need you. It will be hard and painful at points, I can't deny it; but you have to let them help you. You have to let 'Ferre and 'Feyrac help you. You will survive Mon Ami; of that I'm certain but you have to let them help you. You have to let Monsieur Frauchlevent and Mademoiselle Cosette put you back together again. I know… I know you won't like it but… But…' But what Joly? What? Although he can't tell for certain, he is sure that Joly is referring to events, to feelings, to emotions that he is not yet privy and the idea terrifies him. Why? What's happening? Joly... Joly!_

_Desperately he tries to force his exhausted, pain filled eyes to search the suddenly impenetrable darkness for any flicker of the medic; for a flash of wide, dark eyes, a freckled face with a long, snub nose, but is met with nothing but empty air as his shattered self finally allows itself to be pulled once more into the claustrophobic oblivion of nothingness._

**_A/N: Please feel free to read and review! Comments, questions, suggestions and constructive criticisms are like chocolate to my brain! _**

**_Also: To those who have read Those Final Violet Hours I know that this chapter sounds a lot like Grantaire's haunting, it wasn't meant to be! My brain decided that just for fun our broken blonde revolutionary should undergo some horrible mental torture; trust me that wasn't my intention - I have no idea where this chapter came from and to be honest I'll be glad when I return to the proper plot because I cannot deal with any more Enjolras fever dreams at the moment! _**

**_Much love and enjoy x_**


	12. Icarus

_**A/N: Another chapter for all the brilliant people who have given up their time to read, review, follow and favourite this story- you have no idea how much it means to me to think that my work is appreciated! I love each and every one of you and thank you from the bottom of my heart!**_

_**Disclaimer: As I am not Male, French or living in C19th Paris- how can I possibly own Les Miserables? I am simply trying to convey my love for Victor Hugo's epic masterpiece into something cohesive- please don't sue me! **_

Icarus

Miles away, in a rain swept London police station sticky with summer heat; a match flares into life, the flame leaping and guttering through a darkness that is heavy with exhaustion. In the cold, wet crevices of the night unravelling itself outside the window, a cat yowls a screeching lullaby to the flickering silver thread that is the moon; suspended amid a velvet, indigo cloak studded with silver stars. A shadow falls across a crumpled scrap of parchment; a blob of wax from a dying candle stub trickling in a slow, steady, hissing stream across ink that is faded to a rusted brown with age. A corner is torn and a pen lies across the heading; so that the anger leaping out of each straight, black letter is muted; faded from hours of being crumpled in a sweat soaked palm shoved deep within the bottom of a thick, dark coat.

A heavy hand moves across the paper; thick fingers lightly brushing away the candle as a carriage rumbles past and peels the paper off the wood that is soaked with the blue-black blood of generations of leaking ink pens seeping into its surface. The pen rolls away into the darkness; all but forgotten, for now. The candle hisses; flickers; as an exhausted sigh rumbles from an aching chest as a finger reaches up to caress the shadowy stubble hugging the thick chin; the eyes half hidden in the shadowy darkness scanning their find with exhausted interest. It is too late. Far too late. His breath catches in his throat, the thick heavy stink of body odour that suffocates the room making it suddenly impossible to breathe. He slows, allowing his lungs to fill with the sweet tang of oxygen and breathes out again, allowing his eyes to wander back down to the crumpled parchment still clenched in a weakening fist.

He should have been home hours ago and the house will be locked; servants with sleep filled eyes fumbling with heavy shutter bolts and dousing guttering lamps as twin alto voices murmur their thanks to God; kneeling in linen nightshirts beside their bed under the beady, eagle eye of their thin lipped governess. And yet. And yet…

_**WANTED. M. RENÉ ENJOLRAS FOR CRIMES OF HIGH TREASON AGAINST THE STATE AND THE REIGN OF HIS SUPREME AND RIGHTEOUS MAGESTY KING LOUIS PHILLIPE OF FRANCE. 10,000 FRANCS. TO BE RETURNED TO PARIS DEAD OR ALIVE.**_

The soft groan of hinges contracting as a door is pushed open. Another candle dances through the darkness and the heavy lidded eyes pull themselves painfully back into focus as they continue to scan the travel stained scrap of parchment; pointedly ignoring the second presence that has slunk into the room; shrouded into darkness by a cloak of midnight shadows. _**DEAD OR ALIVE. CRIMES OF HIGH TREASON.**_ The phrases leap out at drooping pupils; shouting their slogans as thick fingers thread themselves through a receding mop of dark hair; as the shutter bolts groan into place, enfolding the shadowy room in thick, impenetrable darkness.

'I'll let myself out Clarke', he tells the shadow; voice gravelly with exhaustion as soft footfalls edge past his desk and into oblivion as his eyes squint back down at the paper, dragging his exhausted mind back into the present; away from his twin sons and the promise he had made to them that he would take them down to the stream that ran the length of the village to teach them how to tickle trout after Church on Sunday. Below the screaming headline, his eyes are drawn to the faded face glaring up at him out of the parchment. The sketch is quick; the pencil lines rushed and stained but a certain power still radiates from the faded, flattened wood pulp that he has to swallow a sudden, involuntary gasp of surprise. Wide, intelligent eyes flash silent fire out of a pale, chiselled face; a marble mask with high cheekbones and a long, slightly snub nose set above a tight, determined mouth. A mane of pale, pencilled curls flutter over the alabaster masterpiece; but instead of softening the glaring statue's profile they seem to intensify the power that blazes from the pencil portrait so that the subject in question looks like a trapped archangel; fiery anger coursing through every soft, grey line; the roaring inferno of passionate life trapped within the papers' cage.

Enjolras. The sliver of silver moon slips behind a darkly violet cloud and a breath that he didn't know he was holding is exhaled; stiff digits tightening instinctively on the paper so that a faint rip screeches through the silence, sending a jagged cut to slice a marble cheek. Enjolras. The name ignites a guttering memory within the dark crevices of his brain; a single spark that makes little sense as he tests the name against his tongue, rolling the strange sounds through his barren mouth like a wine taster. He feels his lips, wet and moist with sweet saliva widen with the harsh, rounded EN, the tip of his tongue hitting and falling against the roof of his mouth for that strange French J which jars against an English ear before tumbling and rolling across the long OL and coming to rest through the bite of his teeth in the harsh RAS which scrapes and rushes through his mouth in a flurry of bitter hatred. Enjolras. Unconsciously he feels his head fall into his hands; thick fingers raking themselves once again through his hair as he shakes his head; in a desperate attempt to try and rid his brain of the image of the piercing eyes flashing silent fire out of the papers' prison.

From somewhere in the shadowy darkness, a clock strikes the hour; a distant, thudding chime that he hardly hears. It is late. A solitary carriage rumbles down the silent street glistening with early evening rain. Thick fingers scrabble for the parchment, crushing the glaring features of the marble statue into a clutching fist as he balls it into his pocket and douses the guttering candle before making for the door, listening to the scraping fall of his boots on the plain wooden floorboards drumming themselves into a dull mantra in his exhausted brain. _Enjolras. René Enjolras. Enjolras._

'I will find you', murmurs the exhausted police officer to the cold, wet night as the door scrapes shut and he finds himself enfolded in darkness. 'I _will_ find you, my Phoenix, my Icarus. I _will _bring you to justice'.

_Justice? This boy; this angelic young rebel who had managed to completely disrupt the French Police system so that they had had to call for their English cousins for help did not deserve justice. He shakes his head again and pulls his jacket tighter around his shivering shoulders. A child. A pint sized revolutionary who dared to take on the full might of the French National Guard if what his sources claim has any grain of truth in the snide whisperings that have filtered through the sticky web of connections held across the Channel into his cramped, musty office. _

_A common criminal who deserves no mercy; who will see no mercy. A boy; young enough to be your little brother. A law breaker. An angel. There's no such thing as angels; simply flawed, corrupt humans. An enemy of the state. A child. A lost, sick child with a mane of golden curls, fluttering over a lily white complexion splattered with freckles; every pore of alabaster skin burning with an age old, furious intensity like spun sunlight… An enemy of the people who incited a rebellion to throw away with the Monarchy; the one ideal keeping that country from collapsing to its knees… A child... A lost, sick child... Enough!_

Lost in the chaotic confusion of his thoughts; the officer hails a carriage and fumbles for coins before slamming the door shut on the cold, harsh confusion that the poster has brought him and pulls himself back to what he hopes will be normality. The driver tips his hat in silent understanding as he whips up the lone horse stamping in failing light as it strains and clamps at the bit; impatient to be out of the strange, sticky twilight heat. The carriage stinks of the must held by old leather and the sharp, jarring tang of sweat; the ghostly notes of antique perfume tickling his nostrils as he fumbles for the parchment crushed deep within his pocket and holds It up; flint like eyes squinting through the flickering, guttering flame of the lamp that swings perilously from the ceiling; dark shadows dancing like dreams across the steadily shifting walls; rocking to the rhythm of the horses' hooves as the wheels grumble into sickening, disjointed life. His thick digits tremble with exhaustion as they smooth out the crumpled parchment once again; inky pupils drawn once more to the glaring, haughty profile staring in prideful, mocking disdain out its cage of flattened wood pulp. The sharp cheekbones rising through the icy flesh; the wide, pale, deep set eyes; narrowed in mistrust; liquid pools of icy emotion that glare through the bars of their paper prison, silently biding their time until they will at last be able to pounce on his confused conscious when he is at his most vulnerable.

A travel stain caresses the high, angelic forehead so that it looks to all the world like a birth mark; a steady, dark stain spreading without mercy across the marble features as it continues to mar the purity of perfection. 'I will find you Icarus', he murmurs quietly to himself; wondering fleetingly how he is going to keep this from his boys or from his wife. _ Or from himself. _The voice in the back of his head pipes up, but he forces it back; shrouding its' small, eager face with a thick black cloth of business and normality. He will not let himself give into it. He cannot. Not yet. The voice reminds him of this fact in a stubborn blaze of thought; but I will be waiting. I will always be waiting. Waiting. Always waiting, until you come for me. The servants will have to be told of course; told and then sworn into secrecy as who knows what might slip out from a loose tongue and picked up by the eager innocence of children's' ears? Who knows what little Anthony or Jasper for that matter might pick up when they tumbled like careless puppies into the kitchen, dark eyes full of childish innocence as they begged for a taste of Cook's new cake mixture of else snatched apples from the barrel sitting in the shadows by the back door before racing out into the rambling, sun kissed wilderness beyond the kitchen garden gate?

Faintly, he can hear the steady drumming mantra of the rain as the indigo clouds, thick with the oppressive summer heat released their burden of sweet, sharp liquid, slashing itself viciously against the thick glass windows. Under the cover of the night, an unknown door slams shut and the sound of a voice; a genderless voice that is harsh with urgency cuts through the air before being swallowed whole into the darkness. He feels himself sink further into the musty leather; allowing his ramrod straight spine to sink into the harsh, coarse leather as the carriage hits a hard left and veers down an unknown, empty street, clattering through the heady silence of a summer night.

Faintly, he hears the driver shout an unknown greeting to a passer-by encloaked by darkness as the horse snorts and stamps; impatient to be on its way as the carriage slows, the bare lamp swinging perilously as it is knocked off its monotonous, rhythmic balance. Inside his fist the paper crackles against the sweaty hardness of his calloused palm and he finds himself exhaling a breath he can't remember holding. He is tired. So tired. He feels as If he has lived a thousand, half formed lives during this ceaseless, seamless day and none of them have made him feel in the slightest bit complete as he glares at the paper. He can recite it by heart now; can describe each faint pencilled line of the portrait from memory, like a blind man. From the paper the cold, pale eyes of Enjolras dance with silent, deadly fire as they flash up at him; mocking him in silent, triumphant glee as they observe his inner turmoil, safe from the chaotic confusion that is tumbling through the dark crevices of his mind, as he desperately tries to make some sense of all the muddled thoughts tumbling through his brain which make no sense.

_You may destroy me, _the eyes seem to say. _Go ahead. Destroy me._ _You may find me. You will find me. You will find me and break my body beyond repair and throw my ashes to the winds of change and time; but you will never extinguish the fire that lights up our cause. You will never snuff out our candle of hope. You will never destroy our love. Our love for freedom, for justice, for change. You will never destroy that because you will never find it; however hard you try, however far you chase us; you will never find our flame and you will never destroy it_

He craves rationality. He desires reason. He needs logic; logic most of all because that is what he thrives on. Not confusion. Not chaos. He cannot deal with chaos; that brightly coloured, loud mouthed monster that is clawing at his brain with its razor sharp talons of disruption and slowly shredding his fragile conscious until it is little more than a shredded scarlet ribbon blowing pitifully in an unknown, icy June dawn.

In the real world; the world outside the confused turmoil of his inner thoughts; the carriage is slowing to a jolting, rattling halt. The night is thick and airless; chokingly claustrophobic as he rises slowly, watching the sparkles of dust swirl up and around the tightly enclosed spaces from under his feet. Inside his clenched fist, the paper crackles; the silent, icy inferno radiating from every finely drawn line of the pencil portrait lapping at the papers' rim, silently testing its' boundaries, biding its' time, conserving its' strength as his free hand reaches for the door; thick sweaty digits relishing in the frigid metallic bite of the door knob rising up through hot, heavy skin. He turns the knob slowly and waits for the hinges to groan in protest as the door swings open onto a hot, sticky, airless night that enfolds him completely and utterly in its thick, perverted embrace.

Silently, he digs in the other pocket for his wallet and feels his fingers curl around the comforting weight of cold leather as he extracts a handful of coins; relishing in their cold, round weight amid a heavy, sweaty palm. Almost unconsciously, he feels the fingers brush over the round surface of the locket he keeps within a secret pocket of the wallet; a battered, tarnished thing worth precious little which holds a lock from each of his boys; one sandy brown, the other inky black; a curl of childhood innocence now fading slowly with age and time. The drivers' lamp bobs eerily through the gloom; the candle flickering, guttering, leaping across the tarnished glass as he hands over his fare before tipping his hat and stepping up onto the front step to let the horse career off into the darkness; a rippling ball of life desperate to free itself from the shackles of dumb imprisonment. He shakes his head forcefully and turns to go inside, feeling the sticky breeze enfold him; the weight of the parchment stuffed inside the darkest crevice of his pocket making every step feel as if his feet have been plunged into wet lead.

_Enjolras… René Enjolras... High Treason… Dead or Alive… Paris… Just a boy… A child… A golden, angelic revolutionary whose infectious flame of wilful disregard must be snuffed out before it is too late… It is imperative that the flame is fully and completely extinguished before it is too late... An enemy of the state… A lost, sick child… A traitor… Icarus… Apollo… A resolute archangel filled with a hungry, passionate, contemptuous fire for his beloved Patria that he knows he will never understand entirely…_

The words filter in a disjointed puddle of sounds through his exhausted brain, but he shakes them back; forcing their prying hands and whispering tongues back the dark oblivion of nothingness. He must not let them get through to him. Not now. Not when there is so much at stake. He has to remain focussed; remain in reality; he cannot let himself give in to those tantalizingly specks of doubt that have been sown in the soft, dark crevices of his conscious; speck of light and life that the discovery of the poster, of the wild, ragged gaze glaring out of the fraying paper; alive with a furiously passionate intensity have begun to water. He cannot let them germinate. Cannot let them sprout and cloud his judgment, disfigure his sense of duty towards his family, his profession, his sons… Innocent babes of barely nine years old; completely ignorant of reality's dark cloud that lies in waiting; biding its time, ready to pounce when he is at his most vulnerable…

'I will find you Icarus', he murmurs into the night; watching his breath spiral into the sticky, humid air in a gasping plume of carbon dioxide. 'I will find you. You cannot hide forever; my golden Phoenix. You cannot hide from me.' Closing his eyes for a fraction of a second, he turns on his heel and pushes the door open onto the single, guttering table lamp that illuminates the sleep shrouded hallway and finds himself; once again on the threshold of a world in which he hopes he can still call reality.

_**A/N: PLOT TWIST! (Don't worry though, we will and I say this hand on heart because I have a lot of loose ends to tie up with my darling revolutionaries, namely Enjolras, be returning to Les Amis in the next chapter! Happy?) Please feel free to read and review! Comments, questions, suggestions etc are like chocolate to my bain! **_

_**Much love and enjoy x**_


	13. Apollo and Patria

_**A/N: After two drafts, a lot of tears and countless re-writes inside my head; I am now, finally; permitted to present the **_**_next instalment of Out of the Darkness! This chapter was impossibly hard to write to start with and so I really hope it lives up to all the wonderful people who have given this story a chance and decided to read, review, follow and favourite it, impossibly high expectations!_**

**_Disclaimer: As I am not Male, French or living in C19th Paris (or Jersey for that matter- where Victor Hugo finished our epic novel) how can I possibly own Les Miserables? I am simply trying to convey my love for Les Amis de l'ABC into something cohesive- please don't sue me!_**

**_Much love and enjoy! x_**

Apollo and Patria

In. Out. In. Out. In. Out. The sound of Enjolras' jagged, rasping breathing is the only sound to fill a room thick with apprehensive, uncertain sleep.

_Harsh, shallow breaths falling choked and broken against a cotton pillow as the boy in the bed; the boy with the angelic mop of golden curls that fall like spun sunlight in a halo of golden brilliance over the sweat soaked softness fights for the sweet tang of oxygen that is so close and yet feels to his exhausted body as distant as the studs of silver stars slowly drifting into oblivion as the cold, grey light of dawn swept away nights' inky carpet. It hurts. __Mon Dieu,__ it hurts! Desperately he tries to call out to someone, to anyone, anyone at all to release him from this unknown agony; but his cries fall on deaf ears; snapped short by a useless, lolling tongue lying thick and heavy in a bloody, barren mouth._

_Every breath forced through screaming lungs seems to drain his shattered soul, pulling him further and further down into the dark cloud of senseless oblivion that he so dearly wants to avoid and yet is finding it impossible as his useless, broken lungs continue to scream silent, desperate, agonising cries which are cut short by a lolling tongue; crowding in a mess of bloody, salt soaked iron around a barren mouth as he futilely searches for some source of relief from this unknown agony. Frantically he searches for something to hold onto as the coughs continue to throttle him; the high pitched voice dug deep within his shattered conscious laughing long and hard at his sufferings as he reaches out through the darkness; numb digits shaking with effort as he searches for some form of relief in this unknown, bloody Hell that he has found himself thrown into._

_Pressure in a marble palm. Pressure that rises through shivering, shaking skin, unknown digits curling in silent invitation as he clings to it; feeling minute pricks of scalding, salty pain erupt in the back of shattered eyelids as he desperately tries to stem the sudden onslaught of agonisingly painful coughing that rips through his broken lungs in a wave of unforgiving fiery heat and leaves his trembling frame weak and white and shaking on the beach of this strange new reality that does not have the scarlet comfort of the beloved Revolution to fall back on. His throat burns silent fire; his lungs screaming panicked cries for the sweet tang of oxygen that is so close and yet so far away… And from somewhere he thinks he can hear a voice; a soft, calming voice that he can't quite place pleading with him to breathe, telling him that everything is alright, that he is safe… _

_But how can he be safe? How can he; a fallen God, a cracked statue; the inciter of a failed dream that had led so many tiny insignificant lives that had barely had time to live to the cavernous darkness of oblivion ever think of himself as safe? He who wanted to die, who had deserved to die fighting for freedom, fighting so that his beloved Patria could one rise up out of the smouldering ashes of the old Bourgeois tyranny like the mighty Phoenix that he knows she can be and yet… And yet… The ghosts of his friends seem to rear up before his shattered eyelids; eyes so usually full of hopeful passion now blank and hollow with the darkness of death… Bahorel… Bossuet… Eponine Thenardier… Jehan… Joly… And the students… Oh dear God… The countless, nameless students and workers who had rallied so valiantly to Freedom's scarlet banner; only to have their lives snapped by the thrust of a bayonet or the crackle of musket fire; blanked faced corpses sliced with as much care as a farmer sheathing a field of wheat at harvest time. Oh my friends, my friends forgive me! I'm so sorry… It's my fault… It's all my fault… I should have… I tried… Please… Please don't…_

'_Just breathe Enjolras. It's all right… I'm here… I've got you petit… Just breathe… You're safe now…' Who was that? That voice; that tantalising flickering beacon of fiery hope and life that dances through the claustrophobic darkness of oblivion that ignited a guttering flame of recognition; a face, a memory of salty sea air making his aching head swim as light digits tense with silent fear clutched at his own as he watched the conflicting emotions dance like dreams over a porcelain face alive with compassionate determination for boys she hardly knows and yet by some inexplicable twist of Fate have become the family that she has never known. The soft securities of Wordsworth's steady iambic pentameter filtering through a room that stank of heady fraternal companionship…_

_In. Out. In. Out. In. Out. He feels his head turn into the soft, comforting weight of an unknown body as the mattress protests audibly; long, nimble fingers carding themselves through a mess of golden curls as a delicate palm cups itself around the taught tendons of his neck; a nonsensical stream of words floating on soothing lark like tones… But no… She couldn't be here… She was with Marius, the lovesick Bonapartist with the soft brown eyes… The Bonapartist whom he had last seen fighting for all he was worth; his finely freckled features marred by a jaunty revolutionaries cap of stinking scarlet blood before he was felled by a surging bayonet to his back and crashed to the cobblestones… Why was she here of all places? Painfully, he shies away from her touch, his whole weight rolling onto his broken arm that screams silent, desperate cries of agony as he grunts in pain as he feels himself being lifted into a capable embrace… 'Come back to us Enjolras. It's only a dream Mon petit, come back.'_

_Only a dream. How could it be only a dream? Flashes of the barricade flying in painful disarray through a screaming brain; Combeferre staring blindly at a sky he cannot see, wire framed spectacles slipping down his nose… Courfeyrac's bright, hazel eyes so usually twinkling with silent laughter now blank; his ebony curls stiff with blood and dirt…Joly's wide, dark pleading eyes flickering, failing as he knelt up to call to Combeferre for help; irises the colour of autumn leaves sparkling with silver tears as he desperately tried to hold onto the flickering flame of luckless life and was caught in the back by a bayonet thrust… Bossuet clutching at his abdomen; hot, shockingly scarlet blood seeping through the soft pads of shaking fingers, trying to reassure a silently weeping Joly in a voice thick with luckless cheer that they would be together soon… Jehan kneeling on the blood soaked cobbles; thin, battered body trussed up like an animal being dragged to the slaughterhouse; honey coloured eyes filled with youthful passion blinded as the chattering chorus of bayonets consumed him and he was lost forever… 'Vive la France! Vive l'avenir!' Oh Mes Amis… I'm sorry… So sorry… _

'_Come back Enjolras.' A light, trembling finger tracing the silent scars of salt that he can't remember shedding coursing down his cheek as he struggles; desperately trying to fight the hacking cough that is lapping joyously at the base of his aching throat. But he can't come back; however hard he tries. Can't seem to throw off the crushing sense of guilt ridden grief as the faces begin to flicker and fade, spiralling back into the grey blankness of oblivion as capable hands continue to hold him in a soft embrace; slowly rocking his useless body back into safety as he coughs and chokes against borrowed linen, feeling a trembling digit trace his burning, salt scarred cheek in silent reassurance as he feels his good hand; digits thick and numb with painful exhaustion fist itself into soft security as exhausted pain filled eyes desperately try to blink back the tantalising cloak of dark oblivion, slowly and painfully pulling a battered body back into this strange, new reality that does not have the scarlet comfort of the revolution for him to fall back onto. _

_A pale face floating weirdly out of grey oblivion. A face he thinks he recognises a face that speaks of another life, a life now shrouded by the suffocating darkness of oblivion; soft, blue-grey eyes liquid pools brimming with tender, compassionate emotion swimming in and out of focus as a soft finger traces his cheek… A mane of hazel brilliance cascading over a pale, lightly freckled shoulder… Tricolour ribbons dancing in and out of the guttering candle light framing a pale, oval face smattered with freckles; blue-grey eyes huge with compassionate concern dancing through his shattered vision… But it can't be… Oh God… Not now…. ' Come back to us Enjolras. We need you. Please come home.'_

_A sudden rush of fear cascades over his trembling body as he struggles away from the clutching embrace; inexplicable terror crashing over him as the hands continue to hold him; whispered words of comfort falling unheeded as he feels himself lean into her waiting embrace; feeling the fiery warmth of her touch fall through shaking, salt stained skin as a word rises through his barren throat; dancing on bleeding lips as the cold bite of metal rises to his tongue; the icy liquid surging gratefully down his burning throat. He feels himself swallow without realising it and feels his sleep clouded eyes fall onto the blue-grey orbs dancing so tantalisingly close that he could almost touch them… The name falls through his brain and lands on his tongue as he savours the sweet syllables dancing through his mouth and yet all the while knowing that this is a dream, this can only be a dream because she cannot be here; she who is that fiery beacon of hope, that glorious fiery Phoenix who will one day rise out of the smouldering ashes of the old Bourgeois tyranny … 'Patria?'_

The whisper of a door being pushed open as a sliver of silver moonlight falls across the bare, wooden floorboards; momentarily coating the whole world in a flickering bath of silver bliss. The swish of a silk robe being tugged gently over a linen nightgown as nimble soles caress the polished wood; feeling the trapped warmth rise up through the tender skin. A mane of hazel brilliance cascades over a slim, white shoulder, tumbling through a hasty sleeping plait as she remembers Marius lying in bed; a long fingered hand raking itself sleepily through her hair as she had held him close, listening to the steady, thudding iambs of his heart straining through the thin cotton of his nightshirt as she had silently traced the callouses on his knuckles; callouses left by years of leaking ink pens and the harsh bite of rough leather satchels as she had buried her head against his chest; relishing in the deliciously sturdy warmth radiating from every pore of his body and the knowledge that he is with her; safe and whole and pure in the knowledge of their love and the friendship of their companions. Their companions who have now become brothers to her; a large, many limbed family of bright, eager, hopeful minds all dedicated in the survival of their friendship amid the chaotic uncertainty of their strange new existence. Brothers in all but blood she thinks; feeling a slight smile still tinged with anxiety tug at the corners of her lips.

She just wishes, prays that they can remain that way; safe and whole in the knowledge of their friendship; that somehow, by some miracle her dear Papa, Madame Flora and Henriette who as soon as she arrived promised that she could borrow and ask for anything she so desired and that they would be safe; all of them would be able to keep the authorities from shattering their preciously dysfunctional family. Safe. How she wishes she could believe the brilliant blue eyes; exact replicas of Enjolras and Madame Flora as they had sparkled with delight at the thought of guests, of the idea of being admitted into this the most secret of childhood societies. Something about Henriette makes her think, inexplicably of Paris and her lost childhood years once she had been rescued from the cruel grasp of the Thenardier's; gloriously golden years spent among the closeted, ivy covered walls of the Convent at Petit Picpus and the mass of secrets told by the fledgling Bourgeois daughters; all decked out in their schoolgirl black as they wound their way in a great, ram rid straight crocodile down the Cloaks corridor towards the hauntingly sacred Chapel whose unearthly silence was broken only by the low murmurings of the Nuns kneeling by the Altar and the clink of well worn rosary beads sliding through a palm weathered with age.

Secrets that had floated through the heady summer months spent sewing on the Cloister's Lawn or else been whispered in those stolen moments before Prayers as they stood with ramrod straight backs before Sister Crucifixion; hidden behind hands raised in dutiful supplication or else flitted out of half closed mouths in the silver moments between the Intercessions. Fleetingly, Cosette wonders where all the girls who had floated through the wrought iron gates that had guarded those blissful years at the end of childhood were now; all the little Maries and Lisettes, Emilies and Juliettes; Blanchefleur de Courfeyrac with her mane of ebony curls that would never stay under her starched white cap but would forever be chasing itself in a tendril of dark brilliance down her beautiful, porcelain cheeks as she laughed; twin dimples blooming in high, sharp cheekbones smattered by a dusting of stubborn freckles as she had grabbed Cosette's hand and spun her round as they danced and laughed towards the forbidden Apple tree stood in the shelter of the western wall, knurled branches spread protectively over Sister Marie's rose buses; eyes shining with liquid lakes of silent laughter as they had glorified in their escape from the unavoidable scrutiny of the Nuns as peals of laughter escaped a pretty, rosebud mouth.

Blanchefleur who had been the splitting image of her brother; same laugh, same smile, same long, nimble fingers which are never still; always dancing towards the next action, the next overly romantic gesture as he tried to teach Gavroche how to dance much to everyone's amusement one evening after Enjolras' fever had broken as the dandy spun the laughing gamin round and round until they were both so dizzy that Toussaint had had to be called with glasses of watered wine in order to revive the laughing pair who had fallen to the floor in fits of contagious hysterics; Gavroche curled up against Courfeyrac's chest as the older boy held him close, fingers shaking with silent, infectious mirth as they began to tickle the child's bony frame so that Gavroche kicked and laughed; squirming through the mass of muscle and bone that held him in a fierce, capable embrace.

'Mon Ange', he had whispered into her hair as his nose nuzzled the nape of her neck, a trembling finger reaching up to curl itself around a stray tendril of air that caressed her cheek. A whispered kiss; soft, sleep filled lips caressing her skin as she had slowly pulled herself up onto one elbow, watching through tender eyes as he had gazed at her imploringly; as a slow stream of soft grey light had begun to filter through the slashed window set high above the wash stand illuminated each strand of soft brown brilliance filled with passionate adoration. From somewhere in the rolling mass of green lawns and sprawling flower beds, she hears the distant slamming of a door and the faint crow of a cockerel that is answered by a chorus of sleepy hens mixed in with the twinkling melody of a fountain playing somewhere in the Eastern border. A symphony of safety; she smiles to herself, silently laughing at the metaphor and yet wishing, hoping that it could become a reality for her band of weary travellers; desperately searching for the security of a place to call home.

Sparkling waterfalls of dust rise from the wooden floorboards as her bare feet slowly make their way down the shadowy passage; the air thick with the last vestiges of sleep. The empty water jug feels oddly heavy in her hand; the painted Delft china pressing painfully into her palms as the delicately worked friezes of nymphs and shepherds danced through their stationary lives; imprisoned for eternity in the swirling strokes of midnight blue. Outside the high, slashed window, she can just make out a stubborn, red dawn slowly rising out of the pale grey morning light; bathing everything in a bath of pink tinted gold. From somewhere she can hear the laughing shouts of Georges and Gavroche as they tumbled out of the kitchen door like eager puppies, soap scrubbed faces shining with the innocent happiness of childhood in the early morning light. Ah, if only this Utopia of perfect bliss could last forever! She sighs and feels a small smile that is still tinged with anxiety tug tantalisingly at the corners of her mouth as she hears the distant slamming of the kitchen door and the combined notes of twin alto voices mixed with the soft, deep baritone of her dear Papa rising and falling; spiralling through the open window on silent, silver wings of mid-June heat.

A sudden, desperate, pleading cry cuts through her blissful reverie like a knife being slashed through cloth. A gut-wrenching, heart-stopping cry of misery and pain that her heart leaps painfully into her throat and settles there; the steady iambs throbbing an agonising rhythm against the taught tendons of her larynx as her brain slowly catches up with the rest of her silently screaming senses. _No… No… Not now… Please not now… Not when they'd been through so much and still survived… _She has to swallow down an unbidden, choking sob that rises without warning through her mouth as she finds herself walking blindly back towards the cries; her newly awakened feet automatically tramping their way towards the first guest bedroom, wherein sleeps Enjolras. She can't help the sudden, icy tremors of fear from slicing through the thin, borrowed linen of her nightgown, listening to the ragged beating of her heart as the desperate, thudding iambs of the tiny organ strains in a painful rhythm against her throat. Fear that feels oddly alien; the feeling jarring across her being for a boy she hardly knows and yet… _No… He couldn't… He can't…. Not now… No… Don't think like that Cosette… It's not over… Not yet…_

Without warning, she finds herself at the door with no knowledge of having truly moved; her palms suddenly slick with icy sweat as they scrabble towards the cold, polished metal of the door knob; each throbbing iamb of her heart seeming to last a lifetime. Now she knows how Feuilly felt when Enjolras' fever had first spiked; on that desperate, agonising morning when their whole world, this strange new reality that they were just beginning to come to terms with had been suddenly and completely shattered before their eyes. She remembers the look of pained desperation leaping high in Feuilly's large, onyx coloured eyes; the long, calloused fingers tightening instinctively around Gavroche's trembling form as he held the wriggling gamin close, one hand reaching out to grip the bowl she had been clutching to with all her fragile soul; knowing that it was the only thing that would keep from falling into this dark, hellish nightmare. '_I need to do something Cosette. Anything. He…Please…?' _

She feels her eyes flutter closed as she grips the door knob, feeling it turn of its own accord as the hinges creak in audible protest as she pushes her weight against the door; feeling the icy bite of fear lap palpably at her throat as she slips inside. A puddle of wane, white light falls across the coverlet, illuminating the golden curls in a halo of summer brilliance as the haloed head turns furiously over the sweat soaked cotton, fruitlessly trying to find some form of relief from the blood soaked Hell that he has found himself thrown into. A shimmer of sweat beads across his forehead and his cheeks are hollow, flushed with the extent of the hacking coughs that continue to throttle him into submission. A second that feels to Cosette like a lifetime, but is in fact only the length of a ragged breath passes as she watches him; trying to work out what to do. Icy, unwanted tears prick painfully at the back of her eyelids, but she blinks them back furiously; refusing to give in to the tantalising well of dark emotion tugging at the corners of her brain. A ragged, choking sob gasps from the body in the bed; a sob that could be a name, could be a list of names as he thrashes through the sweat soaked cotton... '_Bahorel… Bossuet… Joly… Jehan… Eponine… I'm sorry… So sorry…Forgive me...'_

Eponine. The name is like a knife to her heart; slowly twisting itself painfully through her fragile conscious as she makes to go to him; forcefully shoving the memory of the dark haired, dark eyed child twirling in under a cloak of windswept snow; her cheeks flushed with cold, her eyes sparkling with silent mirth under her cap of cornflower blue… She can't think about that now. Can't bear to think of those cold and lonely years dressed in drab sacking; forced to sweep and cook and clean for M. and Mme Thenardier as they pickpocketed and gambled their way through life; completely oblivious to the fact that their skivvies' dress was a good two sizes too small for her; the rough fabric pinching painfully into her bony shoulders, reaching high above her bony knees chapped reddish blue with cold or the dark smudges under eyes huge from lack of food and sleep… _'There is a castle on a cloud; I like to go there in my sleep. Aren't any floors for me to sweep, not in my castle on a cloud'._

'Enjolras'. She reaches the bed quickly, placing the forgotten water jug as quietly as she can down on the cluttered trestle table where the painted nymphs seem to dance as they are caught by the soft, grey light of dawn. In the flickering morning light she can just make out the shape of Combeferre's notebook; of a pen lying across thick, inky blue lines; the neat, dark letters quite illegible. She would smile if she had the strength to, the fear leaping in hungry flames at the base of her throat. A water glass lies next to the notebook; the swirling, yellow remnants of Laudanum clinging to the base as she sinks to her knees; allowing one hand to brush a stray curl of sweat soaked gold out of the passionate blue orbs; whispered words of comfort rising to her lips and falling unheeded as he continues to tumble through Morpheus' blood soaked spell; completely oblivious to her presence. Oblivious to anything at all except the invisible ghosts that he alone can see; wide, blue eyes milky with unconscious pain and fear.

More tears begin to prick painfully in the corners of her eyelids and she blinks them back; watching as the long, dexterous fingers of his good hand scrabble convulsively at the coverlet; the stiff digits thick with sleep. Silently, she reaches out to grasp the fingers in her own, feeling their warm weight rise through a shaking palm as she desperately tries to remember how Combeferre calms him when he had previously suffered from night time terrors; how the soft brown eyes and slow, soothing voice had rocked him back to safety as capable hands held him close as thick lips brushed the marble forehead in a tender, fraternal kiss…

She wants Combeferre here; wants to feel his solid comforting presence kneeling next to her as he whispered a steady stream of facts, verses and epithets to his beloved Chief, his comrade in arms, in brother in all but blood… Wants to hear Courfeyrac's wry, wicked humour as he ruffled the mop of blond curls in silent companionship, telling him in no uncertain terms that everything was going to be all right… Wants to see Grantaire's passionate adoration for his beloved Apollo leaping high in dark green irises that shone with unshed, silver tears as he stroked a lock of sweat soaked gold out of his lovers' eyes, … Wants to see Feuilly burst into the room with Gavroche and Georges close behind, furiously berating Enjolras for even daring to become ill again… And yet they are not here; they are asleep and Cosette knows she cannot wake them. Not now. Not when they have been granted this reprieve from the blood soaked terrors of the Barricade; terrors which only now she is beginning to understand…

'It's only a dream Mon Petit, come back', a faint smile dances across her lips as she remembers how her Papa had used to enfold her trembling eight year old frame into a clutching, capable embrace when she had woken from a nightmare; lost once again in the cold, dark wood outside Montreuil-sur-Mer clinging to a water bucket that was much too heavy for her emaciated frame and knowing that she was late, that Mme Thenardier would relish in giving her a good ten swipes with her birch in payment for her tardiness…

The words rise to her lips as soft and as reassuring to her tongue as dreams as she allows her fingers to card themselves through the sweat soaked locks as he groans and thrashes against her; sweat radiating like fire through every pore of alabaster skin. She feels her finger trail itself down his cheek, tracing the sharp contours of his face in silent reassurance as he coughs and chokes against her; silent tears pouring out of eyes the colour of cool water as she continues to hold him, feeling the hacking cough surge through broken lungs as his shattered self shakes with effort, trying futilely to restrain the broken, bloody pain that has his fractured lungs in a headlock and refuse to let them go. Carefully, she reaches out to the table and pulls the water jug towards her; awkwardly tipping away the remnants of the bitter, yellow drug into the bare, unpolished wood and refilling the glass; listening to the twinkling splash of water against metal as she presses it to his bitten, bleeding lips.

'Just breathe for me Enjolras', she finds herself whispering over and over again as she tries to encourage him to drink; the gagging, gasping breaths landing choked and broken against her heart. A firm, defiant shake of the head as he tries to twist away from her; an audible groan of pained despair escaping parched lips as the shattered muscles of his broken arm are once again succumbed to the agonising pressure of his weight.

'Come back to us Enjolras', she whispers; pulling him closer, the water glass now forgotten as she feels her fingers shake as they dance over the taught muscles of his side, skimming over the marble skin as he desperately tries to pull away once more; his mouth opening in a silent, gasping cry of misery and pain as his head falls into her chest, his good hand fisting itself in the thin linen of her nightgown. 'It's only a dream petit', she whispers, her lips brushing the sweaty, golden mane once more; a silent attempt at reassurance. 'It's only a dream; come back. Nobody's going to hurt you any more, I promise. You're safe now.' _Safe. But are they really safe? Truly? _

She doesn't know and suddenly doesn't want to think about it as she continues to hold him; watching the ice blue irises flicker with the flame of recognition; a flame that flickers and fades into oblivion as he stubbornly clings to a conscious that is slowly being pulled out of a failing marble grasp. 'Please come back to us Enjolras', she whispers over and over again as her fingers continue to card themselves through the sweat soaked locks, each fibre of hair dancing through her fingers like spun sunlight. A spark of recognition leaping and flickering in wide, blue irises; recognition that is marred by a sudden, inexplicable sense of terror as sleep clouded eyes gaze at her in awestruck horror; a word she doesn't understand falling from parched lips as she gently releases her grip on his trembling form.

'Patria?' The word falls through the sudden silence like a lost needle crashing to the floor as he struggles away from her; the damp coverlet twisting round his shattered limbs like coils of rope, binding him to the bed. She shakes her head sadly; forcing the memory back as she continues to reach out to him, feeling herself shift further up the mattress in a desperate attempt to shield him from all the injustices that they will no doubt encounter, that they are encountering in this strange, new reality. 'No…' The word is little more than a faint, pained moan as he gazes at her in sudden, wide eyed horror; the passionate embers of life locked in each strand of azure brilliance flickering dully as he buries his head against her chest, shoulders heaving with suppressed emotion as his thin frame trembles under the weight of hacking, choking sobs. 'No… No… You can't… You're not… No… Please… I'm sorry… I won't… I can't…'

'It's just a dream Enjolras', she whispers again; feeling the burning streams of salty sadness seep through her nightgown and caress her chest as she pulls him close; relishing in his warm, comforting weight rising through her arms. 'Just a dream,' she murmurs as he pulls painfully out of her clutching embrace; the marble mask blotched red with tears, silver scars of salt carving themselves through the high, fine cheekbones as he gazes at her; eyes still brimming with the remnants of pained emotion. She nods sadly at him, her teeth worrying her lower lip as his good hand reaches out to grip her shaking fingers, nerveless digits trembling with effort as they clutch at her own; desperate for the security of another's touch. She can't help but smile at the sight of their twin hands; of the simple, golden band that Marius had given her, of the callouses caressing his knuckles; almost identical to Marius' as the fingers start to tremble with exertion. Hands that are so usually full of fiery, hopeful passionate adoration for his friends, for his country, for his people as he enthrals them all with his dreams for a France in which all are equal; all are safe and whole in Freedom's shining embrace. Slowly, she breaks the connection; tenderly pulling her fingers away as he gazes at her; his mouth painfully forming words that when he does speak; are little more than a hoarse, choked croak; forced through a barren mouth in short, harsh sentences clipped and heavy with exhausted pain.

'Marry him Cosette. Please. He deserves you. You deserve each other. Truly.' She can only smile as her hands caress the taught tendons of his neck; slowly and gently lowering him back to oblivion as a slight smile dances fleetingly across her lips. Almost unconsciously, she feels her hands automatically reach up to card themselves through the golden locks; wishing, hoping that they will be able to keep him safe from the merciless injustices that no doubt await them in this strange new reality that they have found themselves thrown into. But now, now they are together; all of these hopeful, passionate lives locked into this strange, new family and it is enough.

It will forever be enough and for that Cosette is grateful as she watches the golden God fall back into oblivion, leaning over to allow her lips to slowly caress his cheek, silently thanking him for his blessing as she rises to return to the side of her beloved.

_**A/N: Please feel free to read and review! Comments, suggestions, questions, constructive criticisms etc are like chocolate to my brain! Much love and enjoy x**_


	14. Courfeyrac's Soliloquy

_**A/N: Another chapter for all the brilliant people who have decided to read, review, follow and favourite this story as well as my other work! You have no idea how much it means to me to think that my work is appreciated and I love you and thank you from the bottom of my heart! **_

_**Disclaimer: As I am not Male, French or living in C19th Paris- how can I possibly own Les Miserables? I am simply trying to convey my love for Les Amis de l'ABC into something cohesive- please don't sue me!**_

_**Much love and enjoy x**_

Courfeyrac's Soliloquy

Thud. The knife falls through air in a steady, graceful arc before landing pinned to the barred, scarred wood with a metallic ring that jars through exhausted ears. The sound of racing feet charging through a slowly awakening house. Twin alto voices combined in a babble of sound soon to be joined by the cutting reprimands of their thin lipped governess. The choking pressure of his silk cravat; suffocating silk pressing painfully against his throat. Thud. Thick fingers reach up automatically to tug at the thick fabric; feeling the cloth slide and slip through the fumbling digits. Streams of shadowy sunlight dance through window above the bookcase, bathing everything in a bath of pure gold as they fall on the crumpled, faded scrap of parchment lying innocently on the desk before him, pooling onto the pencil portrait so that a glimmering halo of light seems to radiate around the pale, pencilled curls.

He can't look at it. He doesn't have to look at it because, after two weeks of fruitless searching, of chasing up rumours, of pulling on tantalizing threads of information that have been dangled in front of his exhausted conscious only to find that they fray and snap at the lightest tug; he now has the faint pencilled portrait of the trapped archangel, of the angelic revolutionary with the mane of golden curls and whose gaze with that hauntingly radiant intensity that haunts his every waking moments, memorised. Thud. The knife flicks up in the air for a second time before falling; its' point slicing a serrated cut down the marble cheek; a dark, jagged wound that gapes up at him, taunting him, mocking him for his own inadequacies.

'_You may destroy me. Go ahead. Destroy me._ _You may find me. You will find me. You will find me and break my body beyond repair and throw my ashes to the winds of change and time; but you will never extinguish the fire that lights up our cause. You will never snuff out our candle of hope. You will never destroy our love. Our love for freedom, for justice, for change. You will never destroy that because you will never find it; however hard you try, however far you chase us; you will never find our flame and you will never destroy it.'_

Two weeks. He glares at the portrait; at the pale, blazing eyes flashing silent fire out of wide, dark pupils before reaching out a heavy fist and scrunching the paper in it; feeling it crackle and tear beneath his thick, nerveless digits. Two weeks! How much time had been lost in the fourteen days that he has spent deliberating his next strategy, testing his next move, lying low to make sure that there was nothing that could give away the nagging feelings of uncertainty, the clawing sensation of doubt that has settled in the pit of his stomach and is steadily shredding his already fragile conscious away to his family, to his profession, to himself?…

How much precious time has slipped through his fingers like water in a cupped palm? He doesn't know and yet it is his duty to know because… Because… _'A child.' _His brain reminds him firmly; as he feels the multi coloured, loud -mouthed monster dug deep within his mind raise its eager head once more and sniffing with an air of hopeful expectancy. '_A lost, sick child with a mane of golden curls fluttering over a face looking as if it had been carved from a block of purest marble… An enemy of the state… The inciter of a rebellion against the Monarchy; the very ideal that is keeping that country from being forced to its' knees… A common criminal who deserves no mercy, who will see no mercy… An angel… Enough! Enough….' _He feels his head fall into his hands of its own accord as his fingers begin to rake themselves convulsively through his hair; his breathing suddenly sharp and shallow; ragged breaths landing against the knife scarred wood.

Outside the door, he can just make out the soft, graceful footfalls of his wife as she glides through the house like a silent, silver swan bringing an inexplicable sense of reason to the underlying sense of chaos that has swept into their lives with the arrival of his new case. Raising his head out of his hands, he feels his fingers scrabble for the thick cloth of his cravat as suddenly nerveless digits untie and retie it in the space of a heartbeat. Behind the locked door into his office, he can hear the scuffling stamps of Anthony and Jasper as they scuffed at their shoes; the prickly heat making them feel oppressively irritable as it spiralled in waves through the thick, sandstone walls of the country house, slowly and deliberately choking everything into a heady, claustrophobic embrace.

'But why do we have to go to Church?' Jasper's plaintive, lisping tones sends the ghost of a smile tugging at his lips as he imagines their wide eyes, dancing with childhood innocence; irises of hazel brown and deepest blue shining out of soap scrubbed faces, taught with childish desperation. They were true boys, his sturdy twin sons; constantly getting into scrapes in the street or out here at their country house; five days carriage ride from the thickly oppressive summer heat of London, falling into the river or else climbing trees only to scrape themselves and tear their clothes until they looked like little savages; their pale, freckled faces smattered with a rough war paint of mud, grass stains and the sheer animalistic joy of escape from the choking walls of their nursery schoolroom and the thin lipped primness of their governess.

The weight of the scrunched paper suddenly jars against a heavy, sweaty palm and he lets it fall, watching with a glimmer of satisfaction as it rolled next to the disregarded penknife and he remembers the words he had whispered to the thick night air when he had returned from the police station; the weight of the wanted poster dragging down every step he took as he had desperately tried to force the image of those piercing eyes radiating silent flames of almost inhuman intensity from every lightly pencilled line out of his head. '_I will find you Icarus.__ I will find you. You cannot hide forever, my golden Phoenix. You cannot hide from me.'_ The creaking groan of door hinges expanding jolts him from his mental mantra as a soft knock shatters the sudden silence. 'Come in', his voice is rough with tiredness as he rubs at his exhausted eyes; feeling them dance over the crumpled scrap of paper and barely repressing a shudder as he feels the silent fire flashing out of the icy irises stubbornly glaring at him out of their paper prison. He shakes his head firmly, desperate to clear it; desperate to find some form of normality in this strange, new reality that he has found himself thrown into. The low, soft swish of a servants' skirt against a table leg brings him spiralling back to reality like a quick, painful twist to the wrist.

He glances up momentarily, feeling his fingers automatically reaching for the scrunched ball of paper but finding his moment of panic unnecessary as he looks up into the wide, plain grey eyes of Emily, one of the few loyal staff that he had deemed to fit to employ at their sprawling country house. A tendril of blonde has escaped the starched confinements of her cap, he notices and her cheeks are slightly flushed, the blush rising over thin cheekbones and smothering the smattering of freckles caressing the bridge of her nose as she bends her head to clear a space for the silver letter tray on the table cluttered with a melee of scrunched papers, used envelopes and empty ink bottles still seeping out their blue black blood onto the plain, knife scarred wood. The sight of the black liquid unnerves him somewhat as he imagines the feel of the taught tendons rising through his fingers, an angry pulse throbbing through the deathly pale skin, fragile glass so easily shattered beneath his touch as a trickle of scarlet cuts through the purity of the marble statue, the metallic scream of a knife slicing through stone…

'A letter from London sir', the sound of Emily's rough country accent marred with a thin lilt of something that he can't quite place brings him spiralling back to reality for the second time in he doesn't know how long. The wide, grey eyes are dark with meaning as he nods his understanding, making to take the envelope; feeling the thick, cold weight of the official Customs paper rise through his fingers as he turns it over and feels his heart lift ever so slightly in his chest. The thin, dark blue handwriting scrawled along the back of the envelope tells him all he needs to know as he breaks the wax and draws out the thick wad of flattened wood pulp; feeling the corners of his mouth widen into a wolf-like grin as he starts to read, his heart thumping somewhere near his Adam's Apple; relishing in the sudden, inexplicable feeling of completeness that the letter has given him as his eyes dance over the miniscule dark blue letters strung together to make the words that he so dearly wants to hear, that will finally make the scattered jigsaw of this case complete once more. That will make the suddenly scattered jigsaw of his life complete once more.

Almost unconsciously, he feels his hands reaching for the discarded fountain pen lying atop a scrap of blotting paper and scribbles a note to Clarke; suddenly very aware of the heat of Emily's gaze on the back of his neck, of the faint knocking on his study door. The boys, no doubt he thinks as he continues to write furiously, words tumbling faster than his thoughts in a stream of indigo ink from the golden nib as a plaintive voice filters through the thick, dark wood of the door. 'Father? Father, do we _have _to go to Church? It's too hot an' we want to go fishing! You promised!' The voice; Anthony's he realises now, rises with plaintive aggravation as he signs the note with a flourish and pulls a clean envelope towards him, his hand trembling with excitement as he scribbles the address of the police station and shoves the note inside.

'Get this to the nearest post riding to London as soon as possible', he tells a wide eyed servant girl; hovering like a dark ghost in her drab servants garb behind his chair. She nods once in silent understanding and bobs a curtsey; leaving him to clear away his desk and straighten his cravat as he hears Anthony and Jasper clamour around the half open door as he stands, stretches and makes for the door, pulling the letter and the crumpled piece of parchment into his palm as he does so. '_I will find you my Phoenix, my Icarus, my Apollo. I will find you. You cannot hide forever. You cannot hide from me.'_

The cravat just doesn't look right. It doesn't look normal. Thick, nimble fingers tug at the silk slipping through skin like water in a fruitless attempt to straighten it but it still stubbornly remains crooked. Hazel coloured eyes, the irises flecked with gold like that of a dying sunset glare at their reflection in the long mirror standing propped against a cupboard in the room their body shares with Feuilly and Gavroche as the fingers automatically go once more to his throat in a desperate attempt to try and readjust the yard of silk that encircles his neck and falls in a squint waterfall of purple brilliance into his larynx. It is never going to happen and before he knows what he's doing; the fingers have wrenched the infernal purple cloth away and thrown it in a heap of crushed silk to the floor. Sinking to his knees, Courfeyrac feels his fingers rake themselves through his mop of ebony curls, welcoming the dark space behind his eyelids as his weight fell back onto his haunches. Dimly, he could feel the rustle of paper in his waistcoat pocket; the flattened wood pulp pushing painfully down onto the soft, light, summer fabric. He knows the letters by heart already, knew them as well as he could recite Enjolras' speech from his perch straddling the barricade; the words dancing like dreams from virgin lips as his wide eyes full of azure brilliance had flashed with the roaring flames of passionate hope, of liberty, of life… '_We go to a tomb flooded with the light of dawn'_.

From somewhere, whether inside the room or out in the passageway, he hears the thudding chime of a clock striking the quarter hour. Quarter to ten. They were supposed to be in Church at half past and suddenly, Courfeyrac really wishes he didn't have to go. Wishes that he could just crawl back into bed, pull the coverlet up over his mop of ebony curls which are as usual, refusing to do as they are told and sleep; sleep in order to forget the crowd of bitterly painful memories that are crowding round the dark crevices of his brain; biding their time, ready to pounce on him when he is at his most vulnerable. But he can't do that; however much he wants to. Can't shut himself away because he knows how much they need him; how much he wants to be needed.

It is the announcement of one of his best friends' marriage after all and despite everything pouring in silent disarray through his brain; the centre can't help but feel the ghost of a smile quirk at his the corners of his lips as he imagines Marius' pale, freckled features slowly blushing scarlet with embarrassment at the mention of his full title. _Baron Pontmercy. _Courfeyrac still can't believe that Marius really is a Baron, a Baron with lands and a title and a house to raise a family. A Baron with the power to clear their names and allow them all to walk into the peaceful land of Freedom together; pure and whole in the strength of their friendship, in their love for each other, in their passion for freedom.

No, to Courfeyrac Marius has and always will be the thin, pale boy with the borrowed coat and leaking boots that he found in a bedraggled heap of wet leather and sodden cotton; rain drops clinging like diamonds to his mop of gingery brown hair as he stood on the threshold to Courfeyrac's apartment one cold wet evening in early March 1829, twisting his tattered hat awkwardly between shivering fingers and muttering in a barely audible whisper that was clipped with cold that his Grandfather had disowned him and with precious little money he had nowhere else to go. Fleetingly he remembers something he told the others one morning in the Musain in a desperate plea for them to try and accept the lovesick Law student turned Bonapartist; a few weeks after that disastrous first meeting with Marius when he had made clear in ringing tones his allegiance to Napoleon; only to have his argument cut down and ripped apart by Enjolras' withering gaze; every strand of brilliant blue flashing silent, deadly fire. '_I have met in the streets a very poor young man who was in Love…' _Without warning, he remembers Enjolras' speech on the Barricade; remembers the passionate fire radiating from every pore of alabaster skin, bursting through the embers of passionate life trapped within every strand of azure brilliance as his beloved chief stood over them like a triumphant Archangel bathed in a halo of golden light as a hot, red dawn slowly bled over the cool grey sky… '_This is a bad time to pronounce the word 'love'. No matter I pronounce it and glorify it. __It will come, citizens, that day when all shall be concord, harmony, light, joy, and life; it will come, and it is so that it may come that we are going to die.'_

Courfeyrac feels his shoulders suddenly and inexplicably begin to shake with the weight of silent sobs as he remembers Jehan's bright, hopeful face; shining with intense, youthful passion as he gazed up at the golden leader; their beacon of fiery hope and life with wide, honey coloured eyes; passionate adoration for the cause radiating from every strand of honey coloured brilliance as he drank up every word in silent adoration that fell from the virgin lips of their golden, glorious leader; their phoenix prince. Virgin lips that were now bitten and broken, blood seeping from the broken muscles as he struggled for breath... Eyes that were now blank, void of all life as they stared blindly behind the blindfold at the dusty, blood stained cobblestones of the Rue St Denis; the leaping, laughing, youthful flame snuffed out at last…

_Just a boy, a child of eighteen, a life with so much passionate potential only deemed to be snapped short by Fates' cruel shears by a cackling chorus of bayonets… 'Vive la France! Vive l'avenir!' And he can remember the pressure of Feuilly's shaking shoulder rising up to meet his tear stained face; muffled cries of pain induced rage lost in the sodden comfort of the fan maker's jacket as the artisan had held him close, whispering nonsensical words of comfort into his hair; sweet nothings that Courfeyrac knew that he did not believe as he gazed in wide eyed horror at the thin, childlike figure of the poet; the bravest and the best who was now little more than a blank faced marionette, the passionate flame of life snuffed out at last… Oh dear God… Jehan… Mon Ami… Mon Amour… I loved you… I never told you…_

Scalding scars of salt slice through high, freckled cheekbones as Courfeyrac finally allows the tears to fall; relishing in the burning pricks of pain that are carving their way through his skin, each scalding drop of sadness a solitary tribute to those who had lost their lives in the name of their cause, in the name of Liberty, of Freedom, of Enjolras' desperate desire to free his beloved Patria from the tyrannical hands of the Bourgeois…

_Bahorel with his deep, infectious laugh rumbling through the packed Café as he swung little Gavroche onto his shoulders. The passionate fighter who adored his friends staggering into the heady atmosphere of feverish anticipation when the last barricade of the 1830 revolution had finally fallen as he supported a semi-conscious Jehan… Bahorel who had been felled with as much care as an Oak as he had charged at the barricade of the National Guard; desperately trying to reach Jehan, choking on his own blood as the mighty fighter was finally felled with as much care as an Oak crashing down to Earth… _

_Bossuet's debates on the meaning of luck as he strategically beat him at dominoes whilst knocking over one of Nicolette's best glasses... Bossuet's voice ringing clear out of the smoky haze of talk, laughter; all drunk on the heady stink of fraternal companionship on an evening now shrouded in the blank nothingness of oblivion… 'Who can ever say that I am truly unlucky, when I have friends such as the eight of you?' _Courfeyrac's heart twists in his chest; a sudden, desperate, painful urge surging though his very core to go back to that time; to go back to the Musain and to find Bossuet; to tell him how much the bald man with the twinkling dark eyes and mischievous smile meant to all of them.

_Joly staggering in from the snow blanketed street; cocooned in a red scarf and coat; shaking snow out of his mop of dark hair; eyes the colour of autumn leaves alive with worry as he handed Enjolras the latest mortality bills for the Influenza epidemic that had swept through Paris last winter like wildfire… Oh dear God… Oh Mes Amis… I wish… Jehan with his wide, bright, honey coloured eyes alive with the flames of childish happiness as his head of ginger curls appeared at the top of the stairs; clutching the latest copy of 'The People's Friend' in one hand and nearly busting with excitement as he pulled him into a tight embrace laughing with innocent happiness into his hair…Oh Jehan… Oh dear God… My little poet… Mon Cher… Mon Amour… I am so sorry Mon Petit…_

Without warning his mind turns to the letters in his pocket; Blanchefleur's neat, elegant script swirling over crumpled parchment in swirling ribbons of black ink as she reminds him that the roses are in bloom, that little Giselle Dubois with her wide, blue eyes, snub nose and mane of chestnut curls whom his Father had once proposed him a betrothal to had married an officer in the French Guards and was moving down to Marseilles and that they missed him and hoped he was safe; wherever he was and that if he was safe, could he write; please? Their Mother was frantic with worry for him and that Yvain in his typically prickly fashion had come incredibly close to disowning him; so could he please write to reassure them that all was well please? _Not yet Blanchefleur, Mon Petit. I will, one day, but not yet. Can you wait a little longer?_

Without warning, the thought of Marseilles makes him think of Bossuet and Joly; of their constant, fantastical plans of moving down to the sun baked south with Muschietta when the Revolution was over; plans that had floated through the heady atmosphere of the Musain; thick with the amicable apprehension of the days to come… Desperate, futile plans that Fate had thought right to slice short by the thrust of a bayonet as Joly had desperately tried to hold on to the flickering flame of luckless life, knowing that time, precious time was slipping through his blood stained palms like water… Joly who had been caught in the back as he knelt up to call to Combeferre for help; the light of life flickering, failing in irises the colour of autumn leaves… Joly's lifeless corpse that turns into Enjolras' body riddled with a dark necklace of weeping bullet wounds; lying in a pool of stinking crimson leaking out onto salt stained wood as Combeferre had desperately ripped off his cravat and then his shirt for bandages as the azure orbs flickered and failed; succumbing at last to the crushing darkness of oblivion, dark eyes behind misty spectacles blinded by tears as he desperately tried to find a whisper of a pulse, a flicker of that throbbing heart beat; the life blood of their band of revolutionary dreamers…

'_Hold on Apollo… Please?'_ Courfeyrac feels his head fall into his hands as the sobs enfold him and he at last succumbs to the howls crowding round his mouth; broken cries of grief muffled between thick fingers as he feels himself rock backwards and forwards onto the balls of his feet; desperately trying to release all the pent up pain and heartache that has settled in his fragile conscious as the tears continue flow unchecked out of eyes filled with hazel brilliance; unnoticed, unheeded by everything but the silently watchful portraits that adorn the walls in frosty, stern eyed silence. He remembers Grantaire's broken, sobbing roar shattering the silence, dark green irises blinded by tears as he desperately tried to fight M. Frauchlevent's restraining grasp; throwing his whole weight against the older man, fruitlessly trying to reach his Apollo, his Phoenix, his beacon of passionate Light and Life… '_You don't believe in anything. I believe in you…' _Remembers the broken, sobbing cries floating from the huge copper tub as the body thrashed through the icy abyss as the harsh hands of the English doctor forced it further into the icy fire…. Feels Combeferre's broken, sobbing weight falling into his waiting embrace as the guide howled into his chest; shaking hands fisting themselves into the sodden comfort of his jacket as his shoulders shook with the weight of suppressed, guilt-ridden pain and grief for their fallen Leader, their best friend lying limp and lifeless on the bed beside them.

'Courfeyrac? 'Feyrac, what's going on?' Feuilly. Feuilly, whose voice is rough with concern as he hears a pair of fists hammering on the door for all they were worth. Dimly, he thinks he can hear Combeferre calling for someone or something he doesn't know; although he suspects it's him; a call that is answered by Adrienne and Cosette combined and then silence as he continues to rock backwards onto his heels; feeling the numbing bursts of static pain course through his shaking frame as he desperately tries to regain some control over the ragged, sobbing gasps that he forces through screaming lungs; gratefully gulping on the sweet tang of Oxygen. 'Oh 'Fey…' Faintly he feels his broken, sobbing body being pulled into a capable embrace from behind and remembers with a heart wrenching pang how he had enfolded a sobbing Combeferre into his arms on that desperate, heart breaking night when their lives; lives that had just become used to this strange, new reality had been shattered before their eyes as the fever roared in triumph, steadily pulling the flickering silver thread out of a failing, marble grasp. Feuilly's musty, smoky smell enfolds him as he feels his head turn into the fan maker's hard, dependable chest as a thick, calloused finger still holding the faint ghosts of long forgotten paint stains tails itself down a salt scarred cheek in a silent attempt at reassurance.

'I…' The words seem to be stuck in his throat as he feels a choking, sobbing gasp fall through his mouth and into Feuilly's jacket as he pulls him closer; strong, capable arms locking themselves around his heaving ribcage as the older man slowly extracts himself from the hug and presses his forehead against the centre's; ebony curls meeting sandy brown straggles as Courfeyrac forces himself too look his friend full in the face and seeing to his horror pricks of silver diamonds dancing in his large, onyx coloured eyes as he continues to hold his gaze. 'I'm sorry', he chokes out finally. 'I… I just…' The choked, sob stained stammering makes him shudder inwardly as Feuilly reaches up to kiss him lightly on the temple; a salty sweeping kiss that tastes of smoke, butter and ink… Oh dear God…

'I know Mon Ami', Feuilly says finally; his voice full of silent, compassionate understanding as he digs into his pocket and pulls out a handkerchief that Courfeyrac recognizes in a fresh wave of silent grief as Bahorel's and slowly begins to wipe at the angry red blotches of grief that have gathered on the fine, freckled features; completing each task with a tender, salty kiss in that oh so typically Feuilly manner of knowing how much to conceal, how to much to divulge. 'I know how much you miss them, how much we all miss them. But we'll get through this together Petit, I promise you'. A corner of the thin cotton has been burnt away but that hardly matters; what matters to Courfeyrac is that it's Bahorel's; a final, poignant reminder of the gentle, compassionate, courageous fighter with the twinkle of mischief leaping high in inky pupils as he imagines the snort of amicable disgust coming from the broken, battered nose as the fighter watched the proceedings; lounging causally against the bed stand, dark eyes flecked with the leaping flames of mischief. If Courfeyrac listens hard enough; he would swear to Feuilly that he could hear the faint ghost of that rumbling laugh booming across the silently watchful room; a laugh that he would pay good money to hear again. '_Oh Courfeyrac, you don't miss me that much, do you?' _

'_Oh but I do my friend! Mon Cher, if only you knew how much we miss you; all of you!' _ An urgent knock on the door jolts both friends from their reverie as Combeferre pushes inside; his cravat a squint mess of darkest blue falling from his collar, his spectacles balancing perilously on the bridge of his nose as he stands framed in the doorway; his mess of dark hair a tousled birds nest; surveying the scene with wide eyes before crossing the room and dropping to knees before Courfeyrac; thick, dexterous fingers reaching up to retie the infernal purple cravat around the centre's throat in silent understanding as he sweeps a whispered kiss across Courfeyrac's temple. 'There you go Mon Ami', he whispers as Courfeyrac silently smiles his thanks to both men and reaches up to clutch Combeferre's fingers in his own; feeling the warm security of the calloused palm rising through his own shaking skin. '_Thank you 'Ferre.'_

''Jol was asking for you', the guide tells his centre, a slight smile that is marred with anxiety tugging at the corners of his mouth. 'He wants to come with us but…' An abrupt, inexplicable feeling of dread swoops through Courfeyrac's stomach as he continues to hold Combeferre's gaze, desperately trying not to betray the sudden fear that is clawing at his fragile conscious at the thought of their best friend, the life and soul of the revolution, the one they desperately need to protect exposing himself to the world outside the safety of the estate boundary. Exposing himself to the torturous grasp of the English police, exposin _No 'Ferre… Please no… We can't… He can't… Please don't let him…_

He can feel Feuilly's gaze watching him curiously as he struggles with the sudden torrent of conflicting emotions tumbling in shattered disarray through his brain. 'Courfeyrac?' Combeferre's tone is gently probing as he feels a hand on his shoulder, thick fingers digging into the fabric of his shirt in silent friendship. He shakes his head, desperately trying to banish the image of Enjolras being forced to his knees as a blindfold is tugged over the azure orbs dulled with pain and loss; the leaping flames of passionate life snuffed out with as much care as a hand being cupped over a candle as the rapport of the bayonet chorus rips through a screaming brain… The image of the fallen God lying in a pool of hot, shockingly scarlet blood; the marble chest sullied by a dark necklace of bullet wounds, the angelic mop of golden curls stiff with salty shit as Combeferre desperately tried to hold onto the flickering flame of life that is so dear to them all; so dear to their cause. 'Courfeyrac, listen to me; please?' He can feel hands on both sides of his face; thick, warm digits gently thumbing each silent scar of salt pouring out of hazel eyes away as he feels thick, trembling lips place a soft, warm peck on his nose. Painfully, he raises his eyes to look the guide full in the face and sees to his horror that the wide, dark eyes are filled with tears that he knows Combeferre is refusing to shed. 'We'll look after him. We've got M. Frauchlevent and Madame Flora and each other. They don't have that. And if anything happens, anything at all we'll get through it together; I promise. We'll keep him safe.' _But how can you say that 'Ferre? How can you say that when we've already lost so much? We can't lose him too, you know we can't! And if... If…_

Outside the door, he can faintly make out the sound of M. Frauchlevent's voice rough with anxiety as he tries to herd his wonderfully dysfunctional family into some sort of cohesion as the clock chimed the hour; making Feuilly tug urgently on Combeferre's sleeve. He feels Combeferre nod in silent understanding before slowly getting to his feet and extending a hand out to Courfeyrac. 'Will you come with us Mon Ami? Try and talk some sense into Enjolras for me, please?' Courfeyrac relishes in the solid warmth of Combeferre's fingers beneath his own as he allows himself to be pulled to his feet and then into a clutching embrace as he murmurs his thanks into Combeferre's hair; feeling the ghost of a smile dance across his lips as he allows himself to be led out towards Enjolras' bedroom and the rest of their wonderfully dysfunctional family.

_**A/N: Please feel free to read and review! Comments, questions, suggestions, constructive **_**_criticisms are like chocolate to my brain! Much love and enjoy x_**

**_Note on text_**

**_All of the names of Courfeyrac's siblings are not mine and never have been mine, they are the property of AMarguerite and her wonderful story 'Some Friendlier Sky' in which Courfeyrac falls through the roof of no. 7 Rue de l'Homme Arme and shatters the walls that Valjean has built around himself and Cosette- please go and give it a look!_**


	15. Vive la France! Vive l'avenir!

_**A/N: Another chapter for all the brilliant people who have believed in this story and stuck with me since my fist tentative ventures onto fanfiction! I honestly can't thank you enough for your dedication towards my writing and I love you all with all my revolutionary heart! **_

_**Disclaimer: As I am not Male, French or living in C19th Paris- how can I possibly own Les Miserables? I am simply trying to convey my love for Les Amis de l'ABC into something cohesive- please don't sue me!**_

_**Much love and enjoy x**_

Vive la France! Vive l'avenir!

The walk to the tiny village Church is slow. Painfully slow with the steady clunk of a wooden cane slipping through a sweaty, marble palm as the heat rises in choking waves; spiralling through air thick with pollen; swelling with the childish excitement of freedom, of the warmth and comfort of togetherness that radiates from twelve bodies delighting in the sweet release from the stuffy confines of the choking house that is still held under the heats' relentless, claustrophobic embrace.

The cane feels thick and heavy in Enjolras' trembling grasp; the polished wood that is slick with sweat still feeling jarringly alien to an unsteady palm even though Combeferre had forced him to practice with it; slowly hobbling up and down the bedroom and then the painfully slow process of learning how to climb stairs with a third limb as he forces himself to concentrate on putting one foot in front of the other. Juddering spasms of fiery pain course at random intervals up and down the shattered limb; the fractured muscles contracting in silent agony as he limps along after his friends; feeling the heavy, lolling weight of his tongue lying thick and dormant within his barren, bloody mouth. The sun climbs with the group; its' white-gold glare unforgiving as it burns his downcast eyes; a fiery ball of hydrogen suspended high above a cloudless sky of brightest blue. He can feel the weight of his hair as it sticks to his forehead; plastered to alabaster skin by a sheen of sweat rising up through his hairline; the blonde locks limp and lank as they fall unheeded into eyes shielded from the suns' blazing gaze.

The voices of his friends filter slowly through the stuffily oppressive heat; the discourse dulled to a steady, buzzing mantra as it spirals and shimmers through throbbing ears; making little sense to his sun dulled mind. His head aches. His whole body aches with the effort of staying in the vertical for so long and now as the wonderfully mismatched group; led by a harassed looking M. Frauchlevent who is now walking in shirtsleeves, having discarded his Sunday jacket and a remarkably composed Henriette; floating across the ground in a summer gown of light blue muslin begin to climb the final bend before the road drops away into the village; he really wishes he had stayed behind. Stayed behind in the cool safety of his room with the water stained, dog eared copies of Robespierre and Rousseau, with either Combeferre or Courfeyrac sitting in the hard backed chair beside the bed; their fingers resting lightly in his own or else drumming a tune on the windowsill as they looked out onto the sprawling lawns, a low, cold breeze playing across their face; towards the shimmering silver glimmer of the river where Feuilly had tried to teach both Georges and Gavroche how to swim. The boys' lean, lithe bodies still plump with the last vestiges of childhood fat rising and falling as their heels flashed through the water in tiny, licks of tanned pink; the cool, calm weight of the water shimmering over sun baked skin. He relishes in the cool warmth of the sun on his face as it soaks into every pore of his skin, slowly allowing it to rekindle the flame of passionate life once more.

_He imagines Courfeyrac starting up a running commentary of their progress; his words drowned in the sudden bursts of laughter that escape his smiling mouth as Feuilly starts a diving contest from the bank and Gavroche attempts a belly flop from the nearest rock; the fiery ball of sinewy muscle turned to whirring jelly as he collides with the inky water with a startling splash, much to Georges' amusement and comes up grinning, eyes shining with the happiness of childhood innocence. In his minds' eye, he sees Marius and Cosette sitting on the white washed terrace bench reading Keats; their fingers entwined as the soft securities of Cosette's Lark like tones float through the heady, summer haze towards Grantaire who is flopped on the lawn with his block of artists paper and a chaotic melee of charcoal, pencils and ink, his mess of ebony curls falling into eyes alive with concentration; as he tries to sketch Adrienne who is making a daisy chain. Her feet are bare; toes little more than bright pink flashes as they peep from under the soft, summer linen of her gown, dark eyes narrowed in concentration as her fingers flash through the bright green stalks, the petals flashing faster than dreams through the light, summer brightness of the stem as she tails a tendril of inky darkness around her finger and grins mischievously over at her brother. _

_Sees Combeferre asleep or else attempting to sleep with a hat pulled down over his eyes; sprawled flat out on the sun baked grass; the vivid green slowly wilting to a light, tainted brown; long, calloused fingers entwined behind his head, knees drawn up; the bony plateau of the joint which he knows so well straining through the thin cotton of his trousers. Sees the steady rise and fall of the guides' chest; the soothingly regularity of his best friends' heartbeat throbbing through the thin cotton of his shirt as a Red Admiral butterfly flutters onto his knee which twitches in reflex; a small, drowsy smile tugging at the corners of his mouth as two wet balls of skinny life pounce on him. They are being watched by a silently laughing Feuilly as the eyes peer owlishly out from under the hat, a slight, smiling frown caressing his face as Gavroche scrambles up to continue his attack on Grantaire. _

It is an idyll. An idyll which makes the corners of his mouth twitch upwards as the brightly painted colours of his fantasy swirl and shimmer before his eyes; lost in the spiralling abyss of choking humidity. An idyll which he hopes he can one day achieve; an idyll in which all are equal, both Bourgeois and gamin alike; an idyll in which all can walk as one to the bright, white land of peaceful Freedom.

Pressure on his shoulder, thick fingers digging silently into the thin fabric of his jacket which is sticking painfully to his shirt by a thin film of sweat; the cotton clinging to the soft wetness of the bandages which still caress his chest, cocooning his broken lungs into safety. 'Enjolras', the voice is sluggish with the heat as it all comes rushing back; the sudden, blissful fantasy slipping from a snatching grasp as it falls away into the dark nothingness of oblivion as he feels the jarring, sweat soaked pressure of the cane rising up through a trembling palm, the numbing bursts of pain coursing through his broken limbs every time he takes a step, the agonising, blood soaked pressure of his shattered lungs pressing painfully against his ribcage as they continue to struggle for the sweet tang of oxygen. The sudden rush of unbearable dizziness that makes the world tilt and shift weirdly through exhausted eyes threatens to overwhelm him as he leans gratefully into the pressure, his hand trembling for a firmer grip on the wood slipping through nerveless skin. 'Are you all right Mon Ami?'

He can hear the concern in the guides' voice as a warm, thick hand reaches up to caress his cheek; the burning heat that will soon give way to another smattering of freckles radiating through every pore of alabaster skin. He nods mutely, his tongue lolling in his mouth as he struggles to release himself from the clutching fingers, feeling a sudden, unwanted breath rise and die in his throat as he feels himself stumble back into Combeferre's hard, dependable chest. A steady hand is there to support him though; thick fingers cupping themselves round the sharp chin, silently tracing the contours of his face; the lines and bends of bones faded through Helios' unwavering, unforgiving glare. He tries to form words of reassurance; feeling them dance and die on a tongue thick with exhaustion as his eyes raise themselves painfully to meet the wide, deep brown orbs shielded from the full force of the glare by wire-framed spectacles; compassionate concern etched in every strand of dark brown brilliance. He sees the chicken pox scar shaped like a crescent moon just below the guides' left eyelid, sees the thin scar slicing his cheek; an old war wound now little more than a jagged line of blinding white which had been obtained by the stray edge of a bayonet's point when an early rally protesting against the living conditions of the fan workers at Feuilly's factory had taken a turn towards disaster and he had been dragged into La Force; leaving his stubborn band of revolutionary dreamers to pick up the pieces of yet another failed attempt at bringing social justice to the people who deserved it most.

'_Listen to me, my friend Feuilly, sturdy workman that you are, man of the people and of all peoples. I honour you.' _The words that had rung across the barricade, falling from his mouth like silver dreams sound oddly distant now; shrouded by a thick cloud of bitter memories as the faces of the fallen dance through his brain so tantalizingly close and yet so far away; Jehan standing on an upturned book shelf; honey coloured eyes bright with hopeful, youthful passion turned towards a slender sun slowly bleeding itself across a dove grey sky as slender fingers made for holding a pen, not a carbine quiver with excitement. Joly with one arm throw casually over Bossuet's shoulder; wide, dark eyes the colour of autumn leaves shining with anticipation. Bossuet perched like an eagle on a chest full of shattered china; the staccato notes ringing through the heady silence, a bottle raised in his fist as he answered Grantaire's drunken slur: '_here's to witty girls who went to our beds!' _Bahorel's deep, infectious laugh rumbling through the thick, night air quivering with an ignorant anticipation so prominent that he can almost taste it; even now. A sudden flash of blinding agony that has nothing to do with his injuries slices through him; knocking the air out of his fractured lungs as he staggers against Combeferre; the shattered muscles of his leg threatening to fold completely; the cane shivering between numb, sweat soaked digits as he is forced back into the present.

_They are dead. All of them; all of the bright, eager, hopeful minds that had rallied so valiantly to his cause; fiery balls of passionate hope only deemed fit enough to be sliced by Fates' cruel shears with as much care as a farmer sheathing a field of wheat at harvest time and it is his fault. All his fault… If he hadn't… If he had just…_

'I'm…' He pauses to catch a choking breath; feeling sudden shame flush his cheeks as he gazes into the wide dark eyes of his guide; his brother in all but blood; silently pleading for him to understand. 'I'm fine… I just…' Combeferre's eyebrows rise ever so slightly as his eyes flicker over the pale face contorted with concentration; taking in the thin, flushed cheeks, the shimmering film of sweat beading across his hairline, the wide, overly bright pupils dancing in twin baths of icy blue intensity as he purses his lips and says nothing. _'No Enjolras, you are not fine. You always were a terrible liar my friend, so please do not think that you can insult my intelligence or my education by doing so; it won't work. You know it won't.' _Combeferre can't help but feel a smile that is still tinged with anxiety tug at his lips when he sees the flash of amicable irritation pass through the azure orbs that he has come to love so dearly. '_Tell me then; why I am even friends with you?' _He smiles at this but doesn't answer, instead contenting himself to ruffle the sweaty golden locks in fond fraternal companionship as Enjolras continues to glare at him before leaning into gratefully into the guides' touch and mumbling an almost inaudible apology that the guide accepts with a smile._  
_

From somewhere he thinks he can hear Courfeyrac calling his name; sparkling syllables lost in the thick, airless space that separates them from the main group. The distant toll of a bell rumbles through the heady silence as he grips Enjolras' shoulder tighter in silent understanding; trying to squeeze some sense of reassurance into the tense, taught muscles. Enjolras looks up at the pressure; feeling the faintest flicker of a smile tug at the corners of his mouth as he leans into Combeferre's sturdy warmth as the guide slowly offers his shoulder as a prop allowing the two of them to move as one to where a worried looking Courfeyrac and M. Frauchlevent were waiting at the foot of the church steps.

The inside of the church is stifling; heat rising in spiralling plumes from the crush of bodies pressed together; the air thick with the tang of sweat mixed with the heady aroma of incense floating from the altar; spiralling up to meet the silently watchful figures frozen in their solitary existence in rainbow flashes of coloured glass as the unrelenting summer heat enfolds the world into a choking, claustrophobic embrace.

The wood of the pew door seems to slip between thick, sweat soaked fingers as he pushes it open; feeling the graceful swoop of summer linen brush his trouser leg as his wife glides into place, the ivory pins in her mane of tawny brilliance shimmering in the spiralling, choking heat. He feels the weight of the papers in his pocket pull at his conscious; the straight black words leaping out of the faded wood pulp clamouring to be heard through the fabric of his jacket pocket as he feels the boys skinny bodies shrouded into seriousness by their suits and starched shirt collars brush past him; their shoes scuffing irritably at the knitted kneelers lining the front of the pew; each painstakingly stitched design sewn by generations of girls sitting in diligent silence by the fire showing a story or message from the Bible.

The Son of Man rising out of the waters of the Jordan to a halo of fiery light as a dove fluttered down from heaven. The crucifixion as the Son of God was trussed up like an animal beside common criminals blood trickling down His forehead from the crown of thorns. '_Father forgive them, for they do not know what they do', _the words he has known since childhood echo eerily in his head as he imagines a steady trickle of blood marring the purity of the marble statue as he feels the angry pulse jump through his fingers, the thin fineness of bone so easily broken completely at his mercy. He feels the warm pressure of a child's body pressing up beside him as Jasper kicks irritably at the kneelers, his feet swinging a steady, dead rhythm against the wood. A thick hand rests itself warningly on the bony shoulder and bright blue eyes gaze up at him imploringly; a silent, desperate question etched in every strand of azure brilliance: '_do we have to be here?' _He nods curtly and Jasper blows out a huff of annoyance as Anthony's foot collides with his own and silent, deadly war is then declared. He ignores their whispered childish prattle, feeling the weight of the papers in his pocket rising through the fabric of his jacket.

_**WANTED. M. RENÉ ENJOLRAS FOR CRIMES OF HIGH TREASON AGAINST THE STATE AND THE REIGN OF HIS SUPREME AND RIGHTEOUS MAJESTY KING LOUIS PHILLIPE OF FRANCE. 10,000 FRANCS. TO BE RETURNED TO PARIS DEAD OR ALIVE.**_

The words seem to pull at him, dragging him down into the darkest corners of his mind as the pale, pencilled portrait of the trapped archangel with the mane of golden curls rises with them; blazing eyes watching him in silent mockery from the safety of their paper prison. He shakes his head; forcing his eyes away from his boys who are now locked in a foot war and paying scant attention to the piercing, warning glares thrown their way by their hawk-eyed governess and onto the slowly straggling stream of latecomers staggering into the Church's claustrophobic embrace from the suffocating heat of the outside world. And then he sees it. If only for a second, the flash of inspiration so fleetingly fast, he will later tell himself that it was just a dream.

A flutter of golden curls. A high, pale forehead smattered with the ghosts of freckles and a thin sheen of sweat beading itself across his hairline. A tight, determined mouth. Piercing blue eyes clouded somewhat by the nagging vestiges of pain as they gaze around the Church; one long fingered, calloused hand gripping at a wooden cane; the thin, taught digits shivering with effort as one leg is forced in front of the other. The officer can't tear his eyes away from the limping youth with his blazing eyes as the mismatched group consisting of six young men ranging, he guesses from twenty to around twenty-four, twenty five in the case of the tall, dark haired, bespectacled one whose dark eyes are liquid pools of compassionate concern as he walks beside the golden God; one hand resting lightly on his shoulder, four women, an older man with a mop of grey hair and a lined face that spoke of years of unknown toil and hardship and two young boys; one barely older than nine who walks with a firm, assured confidence that the older one lacks; saucer round eyes gazing in awe-struck wonder at the church's highly vaulted ceiling at the light cascading in streams of golden, dusky brilliance from the stained glass windows.

Sudden, inexplicable panic leaps into his throat and settles there; throbbing painfully against his Adam's Apple as he feels the weight of the tattered wanted poster lying heavily in a clenched fist. He feels his eyes search for the group again but instead they fall on the minister who smiles benignly down at his congregation, his flock of wayward sheep that need to be returned to the safety of the fold. In the front pew, he sees the girl in a simple white gown with a mane of hazel brilliance reach over to grasp the hand of the tall boy with the mop of gingery-brown hair whose soft brown eyes turn to hers with a look of compassionate adoration as they stand for the Ministers' blessing; the girls' hand resting protectively on his shoulder. '_I love you Mon Cherie, Mon Ange'. _

The service passes in a blurred babble of sound, of ringing organ music, of voices being thrown to the rafters so that they startle the sleeping pigeons that take flight in a rustle of dusty grey wings, of mumbled prayers, of the sweaty heat of the child's restless body shifting in irritable discomfort next to him; stubbornly, silent reproaches radiating from every pore of his body. '_You said we were going to go fishing in the river! You promised!' _He hardly hears the intercessions as the small knot of panic that has settled in the pit of his throat tightens painfully. When to do it? When to expose these traitors, these breakers of a myriad of laws, these common criminals for what they really were? These inciters of feelings that he has tried for so long to smother with the dull monotony of business and yet have now risen to the surface of his psyche; brightly coloured, loud mouthed monsters who sniff at the fragile remains of his shattered conscious with an air of hopeful expectancy.

Dimly he hears clapping, feeling his own sweaty palms move to a beat he does not follow, applauding an event he has not witnessed before it comes to him. Bright, clear, perfectly clean and simple. Now. Now was the time to break this illusion; to pull back the curtain of fantasy that these rebels had cloaked themselves in and expose the reality; brutal, harsh lines as they cut into marble flesh. Somehow, he finds himself on his feet; the words that his tongue has ached to say for so long pouring from his mouth like honey, the harsh syllables dancing off his tongue like dreams.

'No.' The silence is suddenly complete; the sudden, fearful incomprehension radiating from the congregation palpable as he finds himself on his feet; one hand reaching into his pocket for the scrap of parchment that has haunted his dreams for so long, the other fingering the revolver he has stored in a secret, hidden fold of his jacket. _They will bay for his blood; for all their blood, _he flatters himself silently, _when they know what heinous crimes these insurgents have committed._ The metal rises to his trembling touch; icy cold and brilliantly smooth, the weight perfect for his hand as he grips it between nerveless digits. A killing machine. From the pulpit, he can just make out the Ministers' mouth opening in a wide 'O' of surprise; his face blanched deathly pale as he grips the wood for support, hands shaking violently. Can feel Jasper stiffen in shocked surprise next to him as he finds the clear, cold orbs of the boy, the angelic young revolutionary who has haunted his every waking moment for so long; who will now pay dearly for his childish, prideful dreams of even daring to take on the full might of the State. _There's no such thing as angels;_ he tells a small, white voice nestled deep in the back of his brain firmly. _Simply flawed, corrupt humans. _

He finds himself moving out of the pew; pushing past people he once knew, who are now little more than strangers to him; watching his progress in a thick, stunned silence as he grips the revolver in one hand and draws out the crumpled parchment; even though he knows the thick, black, screaming words by heart now. He finds himself walking slowly up the nave and towards the second pew; towards the mismatched band of traitors; traitors to the state; traitors all of them. They will see no mercy, can expect no mercy. The revolver feels cold between his fingers as he allows a thick digit to slide away the safety catch. He doesn't care who sees him as an audible intake of breath is heard, his own hitching and dying in his suddenly barren throat. He swallows. He inclines his head to the minister standing in a shocked, trembling silence in the pulpit; gripping the sweat soaked wood for support with a savage grace as he moves around to the front pew and stands glaring down at the savage archangel who sits in the seat closest to the door; electric eyes radiating silent, deadly fire from every finely worked strand of azure brilliance. The ferocity of the gaze knocks him back as the boy lifts his head slowly to glare back at him, a muscle tightening almost imperceptibly in his jaw as he nods in inexplicable understanding.

_I knew you would come. I knew you would take me. Go ahead. Take me. Destroy me. Break my body beyond repair and throw my ashes to the winds of time and change a thousand times over; but you will never destroy us completely. You will never snuff out our candle of hope, because you will never find it. Go ahead. I am ready. Do your worst._ On his other side, the tall, dark bespectacled youth reaches out a trembling hand to the one not bound by the sling; the wide, dark eyes alive with fear. On his other side, another man with a mop of curly dark hair and hazel eyes flecked with gold glares back at him; silent fury radiating from every pore of his being as his hands clench themselves into silent, deadly fists.

' M. René Enjolras, I hereby arrest you in the name of his Most Gracious Majesty King William IV for crimes against the crown and state. ' The words, though calm, drip icy malice as he watches the blow fall on bodies refusing to accept it. Watches two pairs of hands go at once to the shoulders; pulling him down, nailing him to them, refusing to believe that their efforts are entirely futile. _No… Not Enjolras… Not Apollo… No… NO! This isn't happening… Not now… This can't be happening… Not after they'd been through so much and still survived… Not when…Not now..._

A thick fist reaches out and grabs the lapels of the angels' jacket, dragging forcefully him to his feet. The cane which has been gripped in a trembling, marble grasp clatters to the floor as he sways uncontrollably; his weight teetering onto his bad leg which threatens to fold as a shaking hand reaches out for the space of a heartbeat to grip the front of the pew for support as he continues to glare at his captor; silent, deadly fire radiating from every pore of his being. And then they are all on their feet. The tall, dark haired boys reach for their friend in sudden, pleading desperation; fighting the sweaty wood that bars their beloved chief from them but he is too quick for them, dragging the trapped archangel who has haunted his every waking moment to the alter; a thin smile tugging at his lips as he sees a slight tremor of fear flash over the marble features; the azure eyes widening slightly as the understanding crashes over him in white hot waves of panicked realisation.

A shout. An anamalistic roar of pain that slashes through the silence like a knife through cloth, like a blade through skin as a tall youth with a mop of ebony curls and wide, dark green eyes that are filled with a wild, almost bestial desperation throws his whole weight at the side of the pew, frantically yelling for all he was worth as he struggles against the weight of another who is barely holding him back. Yells that are joined by a chaotic chorus of frantic voices that are barely legible behind the power of the first as it fights for all it was worth; desperate to reach his fiery Phoenix, his passionate beacon of Life and Light and Hope that is flickering, failing, guttering before his eyes and he can't let this happen, he mustn't let this happen, not now, not when…

'NO! No! You can't… you bastard… You bloody bastard… You… Let me go! Apollo! Enjolras! Enjolras don't let him; can't you see? He's… No Feuilly, let me go! Let me… Please… Let go! Enjolras!' A hand collides with a face and he struggles free, only to be caught around the waist by the older man whose holds him a fierce embrace; almost oblivious to the flying fist that catches his jaw as the man lashes out wildly; eyes blinded with rage induced tears of fear and pain as he continues to fight.

Enjolras' head turns slightly; his eyes filled with a desperate anguish for his friends as they futilely try to reach him; only to find themselves shoved back by the occupants of the pew in front; watching their struggles with silent, haughty contempt. The light of passionate life flickers as he staggers suddenly against the hard, unknown chest of the officer, his bad leg threatening to fold, unable to take his weight; desperately searching for Combeferre's wide, dark eyes shielded by wire framed spectacles. '_If anything should happen to me 'Ferre, make sure you get the others out alive… Please? … They'll listen to you… Promise me….' _Thick fingers grip his chin; unknown, unwelcome skin pressing painfully into the tender flesh of his jaw as they caress the fine bones of his face; grey eyes hardened into shards of flint as they sparkle with an almost inhuman hatred. He glares back; feeling the chaos behind him fall away until there is nothing but the two of them; the wolf and the archangel glaring at each other in a space no larger than a heartbeat, the embers in his eyes flickering, leaping until the flame ignites and he burns with silent, passionate fire. Out of the corner of his eye he sees the revolver lying in a thick, heavy palm; the safety catch sprung and feels his heart swoop to his stomach and settle there; never to be found again.

This is it, he realises with a sudden, painful thrill of terror. He is going to die. He is going to die the death that Fate had decreed him long ago but for some inexplicable reason has kept his card stored safely in her deck; biding her time, tightening her hold on his thread of passionate, fiery life until she can be absolutely certain with her choice. Die like Bahorel, like Bossuet, like Jehan, like Joly, like Eponine Thenardier, like the countless, nameless students and workers who had rallied so valiantly to his scarlet standard; only to have their lives sliced with as much care as a farmer sheathing a field of wheat at harvest time… _Oh my friends, my friends, don't ask me what your sacrifice was for!_ The officer is speaking again but the words refuse to make any sort of sense to his suddenly jammed mind. Panicking, he forcefully drags it back into reality; allowing his eyes to dart back to his friends, his brothers, his broken band of revolutionary dreamers…

To the panic radiating from every pore of Grantaire's body as he continues to lash out wildly; thrashing through M. Frauchelevent's bear like grip, to Combeferre who is struggling to hold Courfeyrac back; eyes blinded by tears he refuses to shed because he has to remain strong for all their sakes and yet how can he? How can he possibly remain strong when his best friend, his comrade in arms, his brother in all but blood is being once again ripped away from their fragile family? To Feuilly who is desperately trying to restrain the fiery ball of life that is Gavroche, bright blue eyes flashing silent fire as the skinny ball of muscle desperately tries to reach the edge of the pew because they can't take him… They can't! To Cosette who is watching with wide eyes as a muscle in Marius' jaw tightens and Enjolras can see that the Bonapartist is trying to find a way out of this for all of them; he is a lawyer after all but… But… Her eyes are huge and sparkling with unshed tears as she tries to reach him; only to be held back by Marius whose voice is lost in the sudden confusion that has crashed over their fragile haven. To his Mother who is on her feet; one hand gripping the pew; fingers clenching at sweaty wood as if it is the only thing to keep her from falling as she glares into the inspector's flint like eyes; silently daring him to take her son. To Henriette, bright blue eyes exact replicas of his Mothers' and his own that are filled with silent tears. His heart twists painfully in his chest as he silently apologises to her; silent pleas floating on silver wings, his sister whom he has only just found again and now… Now…

The inspector is speaking again; flint like words slicing through the silence but they don't make sense. A sudden burst of numbing, fiery pain envelopes his injured leg as it threatens to fold completely, the silently screaming muscles unable to take his weight. Without warning, he feels his knees knock and pulls himself up as a grunting gasp of pain escapes his lips. _He will not comply. He will not allow himself to be lead to his inevitable death like a lamb to the slaughterhouse. _A panicked cry of anguished pain ripped from an unknown body. He forces his head up, feeling the taught tendons of his neck scream silent cries of unheard agony to see the sleek barrel of the revolver rise with painful slowness, a thick finger caressing the trigger as the gun is aimed; but to whom he can't tell. Sudden, icy panic enfolds him as he struggles to stand up straighter; desperate to know, desperate to make sure that his pain filled brain is lying to him because he can't… They can't… He is the one that this inspector wants; he is sure of it, he is the one with his name and face plastered on posters across the country with a 10,000 franc price on his head; not them. They have nothing to do with it...

'No!' The word bursts through his lips in a flurry of pain as his injured leg gives up completely; folding him to the floor as the shattered muscles finally give way. Without readjusting his grip, without even looking at his captive; the thick, unwelcome digits reach up to grip a hank of hair; twisting themselves around the sweaty, golden locks as he continues to fight the nails digging painfully into his scalp. Sudden, scalding pricks of fiery pain erupt at the back of his eyelids and he blinks them back furiously because he cannot allow this man to sense his weakness and press his advantage into making him comply to his wishes. _He will not comply. He must not. He must make sure that they at least are safe… All of them… _Dimly, he feels the sleek, icy metal of the revolver slotting itself against his temple and feels his eyes slip shut; welcoming the temporary darkness behind his eyelids as he bites back the overwhelming urge to struggle. 'On what charges?' He feels the ice within his voice; shards of bitterly cold fury overwhelming the palpable bite of fiery fear that laps at his throat as he plays for time; time that he knows is slipping through his nerveless fingers like water through cupped hands. The question is ignored. 'On what…?' He tries to raise his voice as the hand holding the revolver, holding his life; knocks him forward; cutting the question short as all the wind is knocked out of him and he is left gasping, his broken lungs screaming silent cries for a mercy which he knows will not be granted.

Another voice. A hand; a calloused hand that is slick with sweat reaching carefully for his uninjured shoulder; the warm securities of known skin rising steadily through the sweat soaked fabric of his jacket. A voice harsh with emotive fear jars across his ears as he feels the revolver digging further into his skin and silently prays that if it is going to happen at all that it will be quick. _How fitting, _he thinks in a sudden cascade of bitter irony, _that a golden God should be murdered in a Church. How wonderfully ironic that the death that should have been granted to him on the blood soaked barricade was happening here; in the house of God where all should be able to walk in the peaceful land of hopeful Freedom. _

The irony jars against him as the fingers digging into the tender flesh of his scalp readjust their grip; harsh, unknown vowel sounds slicing through his brain as they heave him to his feet; icy words that drip with unforgiving malice as he hears a shout; a voice raised in furious anger that is so usually bubbling with undiluted mirth; a densely passionate anger which he really hopes he will never have to hear again. Courfeyrac. _Courfeyrac. Please Courfeyrac. Please don't… Get the others out before… Please Mon Ami…._ But the voice doesn't hear his silent, desperate plea; rising though the silence as the body with the hazel eyes flecked with gold and an unruly mop of ebony curls hurls itself towards him only to be forced back by the unknown arm that had so recently tried to grant him a reprieve. 'Don't you dare. Don't you… Let go of me! Enjolras!'

He staggers against the unknown chest; his whole being drenched in fiery pain as he struggles to remain upright, to remain conscious as the world tilts weirdly through shattered eyelids. He forces them open; eyes flickering for his friends, his brothers, his broken band of revolutionary dreamers who are slowly rebuilding lives shattered by a childish, prideful dream. The shocked silence that has enfolded the world is eerily complete as his heart thuds through his chest; the regular iambs now broken and disjointed as if it too knows that this is the end.

The steady click of a safety catch lodged within his temple. Thick fingers digging painfully into his scalp as he feels himself stagger again, furiously forcing his shattered self to remain upright. For a second that feels like a lifetime but is only the length of a ragged, gasping breath, he remembers Le Cabuc; remembers the sleek, cold metal of the carbine resting in his palm as the murderer dropped with an ill grace to the mud; grey green eyes narrowed in dislike as he glared up at the angelic young revolutionary standing over him; a gloriously furious archangel bathed in the cold red light as a stubborn dawn had slowly began to bleed over the remnants of the Barricade. '_Pull yourself together!' _The words seem oddly alien, distant reminders of another life floating through the dark nothingness of oblivion. '_You have one minute'. _The comforting metal weight of his watch resting in his other palm as the seconds slowly slipped away. He wonders fleetingly where his watch is now; a grudging present presented to him on his nineteenth birthday from his Father. Lost in the confusion of their escape from the barricade, dug up in a shimmer of golden brilliance from the sewers; he has no way of knowing and now, no way of ever finding out. '_Pray or ponder'. _

Words rise to lips suddenly dry with fear. Words that rise through his barren throat as naturally as they had done the first time as he had glared down the barrels of the first firing squad dug deep within the hold of an unknown ship tossed amid an indigo sea that was so close to the bright, white land of peaceful freedom and yet so far away. Words that make the image of slender figure trussed up like animal as he knelt on the blood soaked cobbles; thin, battered body shivering in an icy June dawn as a blood red sun bled across the a cool, grey sky dance before exhausted eyes before he can stop it. A figure with long, artistic fingers forever stained by the blue black blood of ink whose hands had been made for holding a pen, not a gun as he screamed his final farewell to the beloved revolution before the chattering chorus of bayonets consumed him and he was lost forever…_ Oh Jehan… Mon Ami… I am so sorry…. We'll see each other soon Mon Cher, I promise..._

_Bahorel stumbling into the heady atmosphere of the Café Musain supporting a semi conscious Jehan whose mop of ginger curls were stiff with blood, his face a battered mess of anxious concern as dark eyes flicked over his friends in silent reassurance that they were safe. Bossuet beating a very disgruntled Courfeyrac at dominoes as he knocked over one of Nicolette's best glasses. Jehan scribbling furiously in a shadowy, candlelit corner of their fragile home, desperately trying to satisfy his ferociously hungry Muse. Joly tenderly bandaging Courfeyrac's forehead after he had staggered in from a street fight with a group of what he had said at the time were a bunch of 'Monarchist pig-faced bastards' beside other things with a slow smile and a whispered kiss. Eponine Thenardier's wide, dark eyes flickering for a final time as the lovesick Bonapartist held her close, a slow stream of stinking scarlet dribbling from parted lips… Oh my friends, my friends, don't ask me what your sacrifice was for!_

Thick, unwelcome fingers threading themselves painfully through his hair; short, sharp nails digging into his scalp. The steady resounding click of a sprung safety catch. A ragged intake of breath from thirteen hearts straining desperately in the silence; hardly daring to breathe; refusing to think that this is the end.

_A final, graceful Minuet dipping in and out of the steps like dreams as hands spun him round and round a field bathed in a bath of pure gold. A laugh. A smile. A shout. A mop of ebony curls framing a wide face with dark green eyes filled with silent, passionate adoration for his golden God, his Apollo. A pair of wire framed spectacles as a calloused hand rests lightly on his shoulder, a soft voice reading Robespierre or Rousseau out loud by the fire in a shared apartment. A purple cravat and wide, hazel coloured coloured eyes flecked with gold sparkling with silent mirth. A fan design sketched roughly on a crumpled scrap of parchment, the lines rushed and faded but the final product a masterpiece of thin, dark blue paint and ivory stretched over paper thinner than butterfly wings. A freckled face and soft brown eyes filled with passionate adoration for his angel as they read together curled up on the terrace bench. An angelic mop of dirty blonde curls and a gap toothed grin as the gamin dashed away; his honouree member of Les Amis de l'ABC wearing their newest cockade pinned proudly to his dark blue jacket. A cascade of hazel brilliance tumbling from a hasty sleeping plait as soft hands enfolded his fever flushed frame into a capable embrace; whispered words of comfort_ _dancing like dreams from a rosebud mouth as she rocked him back to safety._

Faces. Names. Memories. A scarlet flag dark with a final weeping sacrifice to his beloved Patria slashing through the silence in painful triumph as his body trembles with the effort of clinging to a consciousness that is slowly being tugged out of a failing marble grasp. Six words shouted with the last vestige of precious strength; words that no one but the ones who had tried to save him would understand. _His friends... His brothers... His fiery band of revolutionary dreamers... _

The icy coolness of the revolver digging painfully int his skin as the trigger is pulled back; the inspector's face twisted into a wolf like grin as a single shot rings out. The body crumples against his chest; lungs, nerves, the frantically thumping revolutionary heart stilled at last as blood blooms through the wound in a river of stinking scarlet; the marble mask sullied to darkness by a final, weeping sacrifice. He allows his fingers to untangle themselves from the mess of golden curls curled in his fist and lets the body fall; hearing the dull thud of a fallen archangel hit the bare stone floor as he stalks away; feeling the blood crawl over his skin as he pockets the revolver for a final time; the final words of the broken God echoing eerily through a brain numb with elated shock; as the body promptly vomits as soon as his mouth gulps down the first sweet sips of oxygen.

_'Vive la France! Vive l'avenir!' _

_**A/N: Oh God... What have I done? What have I done? I see that I need to make another promise here: this is not the end of this story or to Enjolras! I put my hand on heart and swear to all the wonderfully faithful readers (namely Sarahbob and Rainwillmaketheflowersgrow) as well as all you amazing people who have faithfully stood by my other works that this is not the end! I still have about three more chapters lined up for this story, so please do not despair!**_

_**Please feel free to read and review! Comments, suggestions, constructive criticisms etc are like chocolate to my brain! Much love and enjoy x**_


	16. Stay With Me

_**A/N: Another chapter for all the amazing people (you know who you are!) who have stuck with this story- you have no idea how much it means to me to think that my work is appreciated and I love and thank you from the bottom of my heart.**_

_**I am really sorry for the delay in updating this chapter but life's getting incredibly hectic at the moment; especially now that I've got Results Day in less than a week *minor mental freakout ensues* and we've had people staying at home- can you forgive me? **_

_**Disclaimer: As I am not Male, French or living in C19th Paris- how can I possibly own Les Miserables? I am simply trying to convey my love for Enjolras and Combeferre into something cohesive- please don't sue me!**_

_**Much love and enjoy x**_

Stay With Me

Blood red. Azure blue. Blindingly beautiful gold that floats like spun sunlight over a marble forehead. Ebony black. Forest green blinded by scalding, silver tears. Sleek, cold, metallic grey that bleeds across a brain numb with shock. A rushing sweep of light blue muslin swirling over a cold stone floor. Shockingly scarlet blood marring the blinding purity of milk white skin. _This isn't happening. It can't be happening. Not now. Not when they'd been through so much and still survived. Not when… This isn't happening… Not to Enjolras… Not now… Please… Please not now… Make this a nightmare and I'll wake up…. Please… I've got to wake up…._

The colours dancing in front of his eyes refuse to make any sort of sense to a screaming brain as the body falls as if in slow motion; the shot slicing through a thick, shocked silence like a blade through skin. A broken, sobbing, howling roar of grief wrenched from that of another as he launches himself at the edge of the pew; hands scrabbling over sweat soaked wood, the suffocating silence shattered by roaring howls of unimaginable, animalistic pain filled grief. A fallen angel lying smashed in a pool of sickeningly scarlet blood, the cloying, metallic stench of death choking the passionate, fiery life into submission as the limp, lank locks of spun sunlight slowly soak up his final sacrifice to his beloved Patria. '_Vive la France! Vive l'avenir!' _The words seem to echo eerily through his brain, as if they belong to another life, now shrouded in the dark oblivion of nothingness. As if he too had belonged to that distant life cloaked in the scarlet flag of Liberty; a life that was now little more than a dream shrouded in the dark oblivion of painful memories that he is desperately trying to forget but all the while knowing that he will have to face them one day; that the clawing pain that is holed up in the dark crevices of his heart will only get worse if he ignores it. As if he was an angelic statue too precious, too fragile, too full of Godly; almost otherworldly passion to be exposed to the cruel brutalities of mortal men.

And yet he was more than that. He was his best friend. His comrade in arms. His brother in all but blood… He doesn't have the strength to finish the thought. Doesn't have the ability to question why his brain is thinking in the past tense. Doesn't have the strength to force his being into the sickening realisation that Enjolras is… The Enjolras that is so full of passionate, fiery hope that he sometimes wonders how he can conserve it without it all bursting out of his marble shell in waves of burning heat is… _Dead. _A small voice rooted deep within the darkest crevices of his mind pipes up and he shoves it back forcefully; refusing to believe what his head says is the case. The word just doesn't apply to Enjolras; cannot apply to one so full of the passionate flame of hopeful life and yet… And yet it can and it does because the Enjolras he knows, the Enjolras whom he shared a cramped student apartment with in Paris is just as fallible as the next man. The Enjolras he loves is the one who curls up next to him on their sofa by a roaring fire; thin, shivering body cocooned in the warm woollen safety of a blanket whilst clutching at a mug of hot, sweet tea and sniffing pitifully from the effects of the first winter cold as he buried his head into his armpit and asked in a small voice so usually filled with the roaring flames of passionate hope for his beloved Patria to be read to.

Dimly, he feels hands on his shoulders; shaking, sobbing hands clinging to him, nails digging painfully into his flesh as they had done on that desperate, heart breaking morning when their whole world; this strange, new reality that they were beginning to understand was completely shattered before their eyes. He shrugs them off, blocking the voices that come with the pleading touches; desperate for the security of another being in which they can share their grief. He wants to be alone in his grief and yet how can he when he promised that he would keep them safe, keep them together; this multi limbed, preciously dysfunctional family that they have somehow managed to create; only to have it snatched away from them by a resounding shot? '_Promise me 'Ferre, if anything should happen to me; you'll get the others out alive. Please? They'll listen you… Promise me…' _

'Combeferre, please!' He thinks he can hear Courfeyrac, his panicked cries broken into desperate, choking sobs as the centre breaks down into his chest, thick, trembling fingers fisting themselves into the solid security of his jacket. He feels his arms wrap around the shaking frame, trembling fingers carding themselves through the unruly mop of ebony curls, feels unknown words of comfort that he can't make sense of fall from his lips as Courfeyrac shudders himself into a hiccoughing silence, his whole body trembling with the weight of supressed emotion. 'You… You have to… do…something… 'Ferre… Please…'

The words fall choked and broken against his heart as Combeferre nods without really understanding why, feeling thick, salt stained lips brush the top of the centres' head in a sweeping kiss that he knows he does not mean entirely. It is as if he has been pulled away from his body and is watching the action from above; an observer with the power to see and feel emotions but unable to change Fate's perverted course; unable to do anything but watch as the flickering flame of passionate life is steadily being pulled out of the clutching marble grasp. Without warning, he remembers something his first year medical professor had said in a lecture on breathing; a hot, sultry day at the end of June before the term broke up for revision and exams in which the heat had risen in great spiralling waves off choking desks; slowly suffocating the class of exhausted students with heavy eyelids and thick fingers into submission as the monotonous drone of a trapped fly buzzed across his brain. '_Four minutes. That's all the time you have before the patients' spontaneous circulation will be cut off completely due to lack of oxygen to the brain and heart.' _Four minutes. Four minutes. Combeferre can feel his hands shaking uncontrollably as he convulsively swallows the sudden rush of panicked dread that swoops through his being and settles in a tight knot of supressed fear into his stomach. Four minutes. He doesn't want to think about how much time has slipped through his fingers like water through cupped hands since the shot rang out; shattering their world, this blissful reprieve from the blood soaked terrors of Paris and the barricade, from the painfully clear memories of their fallen friends until there is nothing left but tiny jagged pieces waiting to be picked up and put back together as best they can.

Four minutes. He can feel his heart thudding through the sweaty cotton of his shirt; the iambs straining in a desperate rhythm against his ribcage as he watches Grantaire collapse next to Enjolras; hands shaking uncontrollably as he cradles the haloed head sullied with a final scarlet sacrifice in his lap and begins to howl as trembling fingers card their way through the golden locks matted with a final scarlet sacrifice to his beloved Patria as the mess of inky black curls buries itself into the marble chest for a final time. '_Don't leave me Apollo. Please… please don't leave me. Please… I can't do this… Please come back… I believe in you… I do… I just…' _

Without warning he remembers the feel of Grantaire's greasy locks rising through his fingers as he had held the sobbing cynic close on that first heart stopping morning in which their whole world had been smashed before their eyes. Remembers the emerald eyes sparkling with silver tears as the cynic clutched at him; clutched at him as if he was the only thing that was going to keep him from falling into a cavernous pit of misery and despair. '_It's not true. It can't be true. Please 'Ferre, tell me it's not… Please?'_ A pit devoid of everything that his beloved Apollo stood for; light, life, hope…. Combeferre can't let that happen. He knows he can't but why he knows it, he doesn't know. He knows that he has never seen eye to eye with the cynic and his belief that Enjolras is a marble statue, a golden God, an angelic Phoenix that has been placed upon the Earth to be revered and adored but never taken seriously. Knows that he has never understood why Grantaire has blatantly refused to accept the passionate revolutionary that bursts through the marble casing, refused to acknowledge the passionate fire that burns through every crevice of his best friends' body; a fire that he hoped would one day would obliterate the tyrannical injustices of the old Bourgeois regime and allow a new world; a bright, white world of peaceful freedom to rise up like a fiery winged Phoenix out of its ashes. But now… Now…

He can taste the silent streams of salt caressing his cheek as tears flow unchecked down his face; but doesn't bother to wipe them away. They are a tribute; a tribute to the beloved revolutionary angel that now lies in a broken heap of cracked marble and shockingly scarlet blood at the foot of the Altar. An angel with a halo of golden curls illuminated by the glaring light of the sun as it streamed in a puddle of rainbow light through the stained glass windows. Four minutes. He suddenly can't breathe as he roughly prises Courfeyrac's slumped, sobbing form off his chest and looks around desperately for a way to reach the body. All the oxygen seems to have vanished from his lungs as they struggle against his ribcage as he struggles to restrain the icy torrent of panicked fear that is threatening to envelop him as exhausted eyes take in the darkly crushing crowd of bodies that bar his path. Four minutes. Surely they had more time than that? _Surely… Please God… Please let him hold on… Please don't let him die… He can't die… We need him… _But he knows they don't. Knows that for each second he stands gripping the pew with shaking fingers, that time, precious time is slipping through his fingers like water through cupped hands and he needs to get to Enjolras, he has to reach Enjolras because it will be too late… It is too late… It…

Suddenly he's running. Running, sobbing, feeling unknown words fall from bitten lips dry with fear as he shoves his way out of the pew and into the space that is suddenly packed with people. Unknowing, unsuspecting innocents who stand gawping at the body; women clutching at their husbands, children burying their faces in their mothers' skirts afraid of the river of sickingly salty scarlet that is seeping through the flagstone floor, the minister whose face resembles used parchment as he crosses himself fervently with trembling hands; gazing down at the body of the revolutionary dreamer, the fallen angel whose wings are little more than tattered wisps of mist lying on the Altar steps. Combeferre doesn't see any of them. Doesn't understand why they are there, doesn't comprehend the crush of bodies, the sickly tang of sweat that mingles with the stuffily oppressive heat and the metallic stink of blood to make sweetly perverse perfume of death that suddenly bars his path; crowding round the body like spectators at a freak show; utterly oblivious.

'_Let me through. Please just let me through…. I'm a doctor… I'm a doctor… He's my… He's my friend… He's my brother…. Please let me through… I can help him… Please… Just let me get to him…' _The words that fall from his lips in a flurry of tearful pain make no sense to his screaming brain as he desperately tries to fight the surging, crushing mass of bodies that continues to press down on him; refusing him access to the very being he wants to save, the man whom he needs to save and yet… And yet… _'Please let me through!' _But the bodies continue to press down on him, choking him as the sickly tang of sweat makes him want to gag as he feels a torrent of unbidden vomit rise in a white-hot volcano of fiery phlegm rise through his parched throat; teasing his barren tongue as he furiously chokes it back. He can't think about that now. Can't think of anything except Enjolras and the fact that he is… That he might be… He doesn't have the strength to finish the thought but instead shoves it forcefully to the back of his screaming brain; feeling its eager head cloud over by the bitterly painful clarity that is playing out before his exhausted eyes.

Without warning, he feels a hand clutch at his shoulder; the warm pressure of known skin rising through the shaking skin as a thick, gentle weight begins to guide his trembling footsteps through the remnants of the crushing confusion. Thick fingers rest lightly on his shoulder as his legs begin to tremble and without warning he feels himself swaying uncontrollably, his whole being drenched in sickly, icy sweat. His legs don't seem to want to support his weight but the hand on his shoulder keeps him upright; unknown words of what he supposes speak of comfort although he really couldn't care less floating unheeded through the deathly silence that has enfolded the world so completely into its clutching, perverted embrace. More hands on his shoulders, pulling him into an embrace he can't return. A musty, smoky smell that still holds the faint ghosts of paint enfolds him as a head buries itself into his chest and lies there; tear stained words landing unheeded against his heart. Feuilly. Somehow he manages to cup his hand around the shaking chin and force the fan maker's head up, pressing his forehead against the younger mans' in silent, desperate reassurance. Feuilly's face is red, his onyx coloured eyes wide with fear but are remarkably still dry. Dimly, Combeferre remembers Enjolras' speech on the barricade, the silver words falling like dreams from virgin lips as a hot, red sun slowly bled itself across a cool grey sky. '_You knew neither father nor mother Feuilly; you have made humanity your mother and justice your father. Citizens, no matter what happens today, in defeat no less than victory, we shall be making a revolution'. _

He knows Feuilly has known loss, known the bitterly cold monster of grief that has held him in its' perverted embrace for so long is clawing yet again at his heart and still, even now refuses to be subdued. Without warning he remembers a fleeting conversation years ago in the dim candlelit safety of the Musain when the lamps were low and the other Amis save for Enjolras who had been furiously drafting a speech for a rally the next day, himself and Feuilly who he had found sitting in a corner reading a book on Polish literature and clutching a lukewarm cup of coffee to his chest as he strained to read the faded print by the guttering light of a dying candle remained in their fragile haven. '_Pan Tadeusz?' The strange Polish words had felt jarringly alien on his tongue as he tested the sounds tentatively; rolling the name around his mouth like a wine taster. Feuilly had glanced up briefly; dark eyes shining as he nodded, the hungry flames of passionate life leaping high within the wide, dark pupils. _

'_It's brilliant 'Ferre', he had whispered in a tone no different to a child admiring a favourite Christmas present, onyx coloured eyes wide with wonder as he gazed at the tattered leather cover of the second hand edition which Joly had found at a market store outside the Notre Dame that morning which lies quivering in his hands; pulling his tattered coat tighter around his shoulder and sparing a quick, agonizing glance at the clock standing in the shadows; mentally calculating how much precious time he had had left before he needed to be back at his factory for his next shift. 'My Matka used to read it to me when I was younger…' _

_He had broken off, swallowing his words with a choked sigh and Combeferre knew not to press him as he had reached out a shadowy hand to grip his friends' shoulder in silent understanding as Feuilly composed himself, thickly swallowing the bitter onslaught of memories that were threatening to overwhelm him. 'We'd… We'd read a chapter each night before I went to bed and she… She…' He'd sighed and passed a hand over his face; pulling out a faded scrap of black ribbon from his pocket, a cast off from the factory no doubt and marked his place before turning his full attention towards his friend. 'She died when I was twelve. Pneumonia. I tried to help her… Really Combeferre, I did; I got work at a mill as a scavenger but Tata… He gambled 'Ferre and we… We ran into debt and I... I tried… I couldn't… I had to… She…' He swallowed, the words falling from dry lips in short, sharp puddles of unknown emotion and buried his face in his hands; shoulders shaking from the weight of silent, suppressed emotion. Dimly Combeferre remembers pulling the broken man into a tight embrace; feeling his warm weight rise through the thick wool of his coat; whispered words of comfort landing unheeded into the mop of dirty blonde straggles; knowing that his presence would only heal the physical pain that his friend was feeling and yet wishing, hoping that it would be enough. _'Combeferre? 'Ferre, what can I do?' The sound of Feuilly's voice harsh with emotive urgency brings him spiralling from the dark pit of his memories as he feels a hand clutching at his own, feels the trembling weight of shaking digits rising to meet his own as he tries to squeeze back before turning to face his friend and silently reaching up to undo his cravat; remembering with a fresh pang of undiluted grief how he had tied Courfeyrac's cravat in front of the mirror, only that morning; a lifetime ago.

'Get a bowl of fresh, warm water and as much clean linen as possible. ' The words fall from his lips before he fully understands what he's saying as he feels his brain slowly and painfully slip into the full medical mode that he truly hasn't experienced since that first agonizing night after their escape from the barricades when he had thought that they might lose Enjolras to the fevers' fiery torture. He swallows and nods in sudden, desperate impatience at Feuilly's look of wide eyed confusion as he gazed down at his cravat lying in Combeferre's trembling open palm. 'Please Feuilly!' He feels the panic rising through his throat; panic that is choked with tears as his eyes flicker over to where Grantaire still kneels next to the prone figure of the fallen God; the river of stinking scarlet slowly turning to crusted brown as the flagstones slowly soaked up the final bloody sacrifice to his beloved Patria. Dimly he sees the lithe, slim figure of Adrienne kneeling next to her brother; one arm draped around the cynic's shaking shoulders as she pulled him close; a long fingered hand reaching up to card itself through the mess of ebony curls as whispered words of comfort fell unheeded through the shocked, blood soaked silence. '_I'm sorry Lucien. I'm so sorry.' _But he knows that she doesn't really understand. How could she?

Four minutes. He feels himself swallow without realising it, choking back the fiery burst of phlegm that threatens to overwhelm him once more as his legs begin to stumble towards the trio as he finally allows his knees to give way. His muscles scream unheard cries of agony as they contract and release but he ignores them. External pain is as nothing to the roaring inferno of grief that has ignited itself deep within his heart as he gazes down at the marble mask. A thin sliver of scarlet trickles from the wound in his temple; a river of red marring the marble statue as his lifeblood slowly seeps away and he needs to find a pulse, he needs to pack the wound, he needs to do so much in so little time; time that is slipping through his fingers like water through cupped hands and there is nothing he can do about it. Almost unconsciously he feels a trembling, nerveless digit reach up to brush a blood soaked golden curl out of the azure orbs; feeling his fingers dancing preciously over the marble forehead; remembering with a fresh pang of grief how he had done the exact same action on that endless night when the new world which he was just trying to begin to understand had been brutally ripped apart.

'_Please hold on Enjolras.' _The words fall unheeded through trembling lips as he reaches for a flicker of a pulse, allowing his fingers to caress the hard, high line of his best friends' cheek as they dance up to meet the dark, gaping wound that glares up at him in stubborn, painful defiance. Four minutes. The back of his trembling hands are suddenly slick with sweat as he feels an unknown weight drop down next him and something soft and warm being pressed into his hands. Faintly he thinks he can still hear Grantaire's broken, sobbing howls of pain filled grief as Adrienne held him close; whispering words of comfort that cannot be understood. '_Please hold on petit. We need you.' _A shaking, slim weight finds itself in his empty palm and he squeezes back painfully as the dim slosh of water against wood chases itself against his numb brain. He feels the weight press painfully against his side as he slowly extracts his hand from the trembling fingers and begins to work; desperately trying to quell the flurrying bites of panic that are threatening to overwhelm him.

Almost unconsciously he feels his hand cup itself around the sullied halo of golden curl and slowly ease the head of his best friend into his lap as he brushes his salt stained lips across the icy forehead. He can almost taste the presence of Joly kneeling beside him as he begins to wash the wound, his fingers dancing every so often to look for even the faintest flicker of a pulse throbbing through the battered temple. '_You have to keep him elevated and pointed north. That way the blood will go to his brain and circulation will be restored. Do it slowly though. You can kill patients by rushing.' _How he wishes Joly was here with him! How he wishes for that snub nose, for those eyes the colour of autumn leaves widening with silent laughter or dark with concentration, for that solidly comforting presence to be kneeling next to him. But Joly is dead. Dead like the hundreds of other nameless students and workers who gave their lives so that Enjolras' beloved Patria could one day rise up like a fiery Phoenix out of the ashes of the old Bourgeois tyranny. Dimly, he feels his hand dip a scrap of cloth into the unknown icy water and begin to wipe away the worst of the blood; silently relishing in the fluid mechanical quality of his movements as he soaks the linen in the water that is slowly turning crimson with the fluid tendrils of his best friends' blood; all the while praying that they are not too late. Faintly he can feel the unknown presence knelt beside him reach up to find a pulse as their fingers brush against each other; united by the scarlet blood that caresses the twin calloused skins. '_Please hold on Mon Ami. We need you.' _

The wound gapes up at him; a small, deadly cavernous hole glaring through a bed of marble perfection as he begins to feel for the bullet; his heart hammering painfully somewhere near his Adam's Apple as his fingers scrabble, suddenly desperate for the cold security of metal to rise to his quivering touch. He needs a knife; he needs his medical bag; he needs his instruments; he needs alcohol to dull the pain that the angelic boy who lies prone underneath his shaking touch will undoubtedly feel if and when he finds the cause of all this agony. This unbearable, inconceivable agony that was caused by a man whose sole purpose was to knock one of Heaven's angels from its' perch and watch as it fell in a graceful arc of silver feathers towards the cruel brutalities of Earth. He shakes his head forcefully and continues to feel for the shot; whispered apologies falling unheeded from trembling lips as he feels the unknown presence press closer against his body; desperate for the security of another's touch. He ignores it; but silently thanks whoever it is for being there as his trembling fingers finally hit the icy bite of blood soaked shot dug deep within Enjolras' temple. Without warning he feels his eyes slip shut as his hand closes around the bullet and feels himself ease it out gently; words from his first year at Necker that could have belonged to his professor, could have belonged to Joly, could have belonged to anyone at all ringing through his brain as he feels the sickly, salty warmth of blood gushing over his fingers as the cold harshness of the bullet rises through his fingers. '_You have to do it slowly. Do it too fast and a patient is in danger of bleeding to death or slipping into catatonic shock. It needs to be slow; even if you feel that you need to rush it; you can't.' _

The weight is warm with sickly scarlet as it falls through the callouses in his palm; stubbornly silent as he reaches for a scrap of linen to wrap it up; anything so he doesn't have to look at it; doesn't have to realise that something so small, so coldly symmetrical could cause such agonizing pain. Dimly he thinks he can hear Grantaire hiccoughing himself into silence; his sobbing cries mingled with the thick, uncertain tension that has enveloped the room so completely and refuses to release it from its choking, claustrophobic embrace. Blood blooms through his fingers as he begins to bandage up the wound; trying desperately not to look at the long lashed lids which bar him from having the honour of looking on those azure orbs so usually full of passionate life once more. His fingers dig painfully into the cloth as he feels his free hand gently lift the mess of golden curls and support it into his lap; blood soaked digits dancing through spun sunlight as a whispered kiss falls onto the marble forehead, trailing themselves down to look for even a flutter of a pulse. A flicker. A faint, throbbing flicker that jumps through his shocked self as he clutches at the cotton; feeling his knuckles slowing turning white with the extent of the pressure. '_Please come back to us 'Jolras. We need you Mon Ami. Please come home.' _Faintly he feels the body beside him press painfully close to him; silent excitement radiating in waves of heat through every crevice of unknown skin as they too feel the passionate flame of life leaping, guttering through the darkness. Suddenly, he can smell salt; scars of salt coursing silently down his cheeks as his fingers scrabble for the faint throbbing iambs of life floating feebly through the marble statue. The cloth lies suddenly forgotten against the wound as he allows his hand to grip the limp digits in his own, praying that by some miracle he will be able to reignite the flickering flames of passionate life once more. '_You have to fight this Enjolras. We need you back Mon Petit; please come back.' _

A flutter of those light blonde lashes, so sudden that he could have imagined it; the thin sliver of ice blue intensity that he thought he would never see again clouded into darkness by the purity of the pain. A thin, ragged breath forced through icy, blood caked lips harsh with pain that flickers and dies as he grips at the long, limp digits lying in his palm; hardly daring to breathe as he feels the tears course without restraint down his cheek. The eyes flicker again as he allows his free hand to dance over the marble chest cocooned in bandages; numb fingers scrabbling for a flicker of a heartbeat. With painful slowness it rises through the numb skin and he clutches at like a sailor clinging to a scrap of driftwood amid a storm tossed sea; rising and falling with the jagged irregularity of each forced breath. 'Stay with me Enjolras', he whispers as a stray finger caresses the line of the marble cheek; relishing in the flickering warmth that flickers and gutters through every pore of alabaster skin. The eyes flicker open again; the wide, dark pupils alive with pain as he begins to bandage the wound; completing each task with a small, salt stained kiss as his eyes fix themselves on the icy irises dilated with the purity of the pain as they try to remain focussed. 'Try and stay awake Petit', he hears himself whisper over and over again. 'Please? We'll get you out of here, I promise; but you have to stay awake.' A faintly, defiant shake of golden curls as a limp white hand reaches up to grip his own; suddenly desperate for the security of another's touch.

'_I'm tired Mon Ami. So tired. Why can't I sleep? I'm cold… I wanted to… I had to… Why didn't I…?'_ He takes the shaking digits lightly and squeezes back with as much pressure as he can muster; watching the bright blue eyes flutter closed again, succumbing once more to the crushing darkness of oblivion. A sudden, choking sob falls from the unknown body beside him as he instinctively reaches for a pulse; a breath he doesn't realise he's holding floating through his mouth as it throbs faintly through the taught tendons of Enjolras' neck. Dimly, he feels another presence drop to the floor beside him, pulling him into a warm, capable embrace; finally allowing himself to fall back into the warm security of a familiar chest as Courfeyrac holds him close; whispered words of comfort falling unheeded into his hair as he continues to cling to the flickering iambs of life throbbing through the inky blue veins as he finally allows himself to sob into Courfeyrac's waistcoat, one hand fisting itself painfully into the thick fabric; refusing to even contemplate letting go. The centre doesn't say anything, doesn't have to say anything, but simply pulls him closer, thick fingers clinging to him as if he were a frightened child who had woken from a nightmare as his free hand trails itself over the marble forehead in a silent, desperate plea to the one who lies with a head of golden, blood caked curls in his lap.

'_Stay with me Enjolras. I need you here little one. We need you here; all of us. Please don't go.'_

**_A/N: Please feel free to read and review! Comments, questions, suggestions, constructive criticisms are like chocolate to my brain and will keep me from going to drown myself in a pool of my own tears!_**

**_Note on text_**

_**Everything of a medical nature in this chapter is taken from the internet and may or may not be correct; I have very little medical knowledge despite gaining a certificate in first aid from Bronze Duke of Edinburgh about four years ago and so any mistakes are entirely mine- so please feel free to comment on them if you **_**_wish!_**


	17. Lost Souls

_**A/N: Another chapter for the two most brilliant people in the world of fanfiction (they know who they are and I love them both dearly!) and for all you wonderful people who have **_**_stuck with my writing from day one! You have no idea how much it means to me to think that my work is appreciated and I thank you and love you from the bottom of my heart! _**

**_I am really sorry about the delay in posting this chapter but we've had people staying at home and... I'M GOING TO GLASGOW UNIVERSITY IN SEPTEMBER! I'VE PASSED MY A-LEVELS! _**

**_Disclaimer: As I am not Male, French or living in C19th Paris- how can I possibly own Les Miserables? I am simply trying to convey my love for Les Amis de l'ABC and all the men and women who gave their lives for the cause- please don't sue me!_**

Lost Souls

He walks away. Later, in the musty darkness of the carriage rumbling its' way back to London through the heavy violet heat, he will tell himself that it was for the best. Later he will stand by a chipped porcelain sink and scrub at his hands with frigid water, feeling the minute pricks of pain dig into his skin as his nails furiously try and eradicate all traces of the scarlet revolutionary blood that mars the calloused palms. And yet even in the safety of his rented room he will still feel the heat of the fallen angel's gaze on him; a gaze full of such ragged, passionate intensity that it makes him recoil slightly as he desperately tries to refrain the image from branding itself permanently on the back of his eyelids.

Later he will sit on a bed made up with cheap, itchy linen and draw out the hank of golden hair that had come away in his fingers from the inky depths of his coat pocket, feeling it drift through nerveless digits like spun sunlight as he remembers the thin fineness of bone rising through his fingers as the azure orbs blazed with a silent inferno of passionate fire; smashing all the walls that from the moment he had received the Wanted poster and been subjected to the icy stare of the angelic young revolutionary he has tried and failed to build up in order to protect his fragile conscious from further assault. The hair will dance through his fingers; the golden brilliance catching the guttering light of the failing candle perched in a tarnished bracket as a lone carriage rumbles on down the unknown street below the window; a horse snorting and stamping through the claustrophobic evening heat and he will allow his head to fall into his hands, thick fingers raking through his hair as he tries to work out the best course of action.

He craves logic; longs to feel the shattered pieces of his life fall back into their respective places in the cold, calm manner of rationality and yet knows that it will never happen. And yet logic shies away from this case like a frightened yearling colt from a halter; cowering behind the brightly coloured, loud mouthed monster of chaos. Chaos; a monster that holds the same frighteningly inner strength locked within each strand of finely worked azure brilliance which continues to glare at him through the high, fine marble features of the angelic young revolutionary who has haunted his dreams, plagued every living moment of his being for so long.

'_Failure'; _a small voice inside the darkest crevices of his brain spits at him; the word dripping with poisonous, ice –cold malice. He ignores it, feeling his fingers hit the sweaty weight of metal as the tense digits close around his coach fare and hands it out, his free hand reaching up to tug irritably at the stuffy confines of his cravat which is slowly choking him in the oppressive summer heat and feels it come away in his palm; the thick cotton lying in a heap of sweat soaked fabric within his open palm. Anything to stop himself from dwelling on his own inadequacies, on his own doubts that the fallen angel had cunningly sown deep within his fragile psyche, on the very idea that the limping youth with the blazing eyes that were full of an unknown icy intensity that makes him shudder inwardly has made him feel this way. Has made him run like a coward, a common criminal from a case that he knows is going to haunt him for the rest of his days. Leaning back into the seat that stinks of rain soaked, antique leather he finds himself thinking about his boys and how this seamless, seemingly endless day might have ended by the cool shade of the river listening to the lilting lullaby of the water lapping against bare ankles as they splashed and danced in the dappled shade; relishing in the innocent joy of escape from the stifling confines of the Church.

'_Damn you Enjolras.' _The thought flies through his brain in a cascade of bitter venom as he remembers the feeling of inexplicable calmness radiating from every pore of passionate life as he moved towards the angelic revolutionary; remembers too the silent, pulsating feeling of tangible fear that had radiated from the thirteen bodies who had desperately tried to protect their golden God; finding out all too soon that their efforts would be entirely futile. '_Damn you and your revolutionary principles. Damn you and your followers and may you rot in Purgatory for all eternity. You deserve it. Did you really think that you would be able to take on the full might of the Parisian National Guard and win?'_

He does not want to think about what his reception will be like back in the shadowy darkness of the London police station as the carriage begins to pick up speed; the horses clamping excitably at their bits as they strain through the confines of their harnesses; desperate for a freedom that is as distant as dreams. He does not want to think about how he will face the formidable flint like gaze of the Chief Constable which turns even the hardest of his fellow officers' into quivering, frightened children trembling before their headmaster. Fleetingly he wonders how his boys are faring as the carriage rumbles him through the suffocating summer heat; speeding him away from the almost bestial cries of rage induced grief, from the inexplicable sense of calm that is marred with a tiny and yet painfully tangible tang of fear radiating from every pore of the fallen Icarus as he dragged him roughly to his feet; speeding him away from the loud mouthed monsters of chaos and irrationality dancing in the twin baths of ice blue intensity; the two beasts that have hounded his every waking moment since he was sent that cursed poster with the pencilled portrait of the glaring archangel trapped within a paper prison and stubbornly refuse to give up the chase.

'_M. René Enjolras, I hereby arrest you in the name of his Most Gracious Majesty King William IV for crimes against the crown and state.' _The words seem to echo through his brain as he leans his head against the cool glass of the carriage window and gazes without really seeing at the countryside that filters past his exhausted eyes. Without warning he remembers the thin fineness of the high cheekbones rising through his fingers as he gripped Enjolras' face beneath two fingers, relishing in the fact that the golden God who for so long had seemed to be invincible to him could now feel so easily breakable as the wolf and the archangel glared at each other through a space no bigger than a heartbeat. _And yet… He was a child. You knew that. A lost, sick child young enough to be your little brother, your son! How old would he have been? Twenty? Twenty-one? A child. Murderer. And yet he was a traitor of the state, _another voice reasons and he clings to it, desperately trying to feed the reason he craves and put an end to his doubts which are growing with every passing second but it side tracks his snatching grasp and instead dances off into the dark oblivion of nothingness, leaving him all alone.

'_An inciter of a revolution that would have overthrown the Monarchy; the only ideal that is keeping that country; that infernal country from falling to its' knees. A child. An angel. An angelic young revolutionary fighting for what he believed in, fighting for freedom. Isn't that what you believe in as well? Aren't those your ideals too?' _He doesn't know. He doesn't know anything any more apart from the single fact throbbing through his brain that he wants to get out. He suddenly doesn't care about the fact that his wife and children are completely dependant on him for their upkeep, doesn't care that if he does this than he will be considered a vagabond to his profession, that his name will be subject to the whispering gossips and ridicule of the streets and he will be seen as a vagabond, a runaway; little better than the runaways, the traitors that he is so longing to bring to justice.

'_Justice?' _The voice pipes up; silent mockery dripping with painful slowness from every syllable. '_Justice? This angelic young traitor had not deserved justice. And yet… He had been a child. A lost, sick child far away from his home fighting a battle too large for him to handle alone; a battle that would always end with a blood stained martyr standing in proud defiance of the Law; a savage archangel with a halo of blood splattered, golden curls fluttering free over an alabaster masterpiece as he made his final stand. A final stand before he could fly away in a cascade of bloody, silver wings from the cruel brutalities of mortal men; never to be found in this world again. 'Vive la France! Vive l'avenir!' _The words seem to echo eerily through his brain; drumming themselves into a dull, throbbing mantra that he desperately wants to forget and yet they have branded themselves with their fiery, passionate hope into the very core of his being and; try as he might, they refuse to be eradicated.

He shakes his head furiously and realises with a jolt that the carriage is slowing down, the horses' snorting stamp floating through the thick night air as he hears the coachman shout something into the swirling heat and the sound of a distant door being shoved open. The air is cooler here and he hears the faint, plaintive note of a nightingale rising up from deep within an unknown tree as a sliver of silver moonlight slips out from behind a violet cloud; bathing the world in a sudden flash of silver brilliance. The sound of a door slamming itself shut on the stickily humid night jolts him from his reverie as he takes a moment to collect himself before making his way down the steps, feeling his legs shudder unpleasantly as they take his weight; his brain suddenly reeling back to the full force of Enjolras' staggering weight rising through his fingers as the fallen angel struggled to stand up straight against his chest. He swallows, feeling the itchy heat tease his suddenly barren tongue as a lamp bobs through the thick, oppressive darkness towards him as he forces the memory back; refusing to give in to the prickling feelings of doubt that are clawing at the back of his mind. He cannot let them germinate; these seeds that the angelic revolutionary with the blazing eyes; that the proud, definitely disdainful marble masterpiece has so deftly sown into the deepest crevices of his fragile conscious.

'This way Sir', the girl's quiet Home Counties' accent has a slight foreign undertone that he can't quite place immediately as he fumbles in his coat pocket for his wallet; numb fingers briefly brushing the hank of golden curls and the tarnished locket in which he keeps the locks of his boys when they were little more than infants; watching the world with a carefree, childish innocence that he knows they will never reclaim entirely. The driver tips his hat and whips up the horses whose snorting stamp sends billows of hot air into the already suffocating night as they trot away smartly; rippling balls of eager, fiery life straining through the leather prison of their harnesses. The servant girls' lamp bobs in a disjointed puddle of flickering candle light through the darkness as she leads him inside a cramped, shadowy hallway and shuts the door on the sticky night air.

'Come 'long way then Sir?' Her question is innocent, her wide, dark eyes alive with an inexplicable sense of silent sadness as she inspects him in the flickering gloom; her hazel coloured eyes flecked with strands of molten honey roving over his hollow cheeks, taking in the shadow of stubble that caresses the sharp contours of his jawbone, the faint blue black bruising that hugs the soft flesh beneath his eyelids. He shakes his head and reaches in his coat pocket for his watch, feeling the icy symmetry rising through his fingers as he flicks the lid and holds it to the light. '18.50 hours' the shadowy hands, dancing over the enamel face like long, black spiders read and he nods in surprise. _18.50 hours. _Could it really be possibly that he is really only at the end of one seemingly endless, seamless day? He feels as if he has lived a thousand tiny, half formed lives throughout the endless hours that separate the time from when Emily had brought him the letter that he had thought would have been the end to this endless, nonsensical game of cat-and-mouse but had really only been the beginning, to this moment in an unfamiliar inn with the crusted bloodstains of a passionately angelic French martyr crawling over his hands.

'Sir? Shall I show you to your room? There's one spare just above the parlour on the first floor and Madame… I… I mean the Mistress has had a fire made up. It was burning nicely the last time I checked with a bowl of water and some of our best soap. Would that suit?' _Madame. _He nods, hastily shoving the sudden, inexplicable rush of joy that laps at his being into nothingness and notices without really understanding why he notices that sudden slip of the tongue as she hastily corrects herself; a sudden flash of panicked fear dancing through the wide, dark pupils as a hand reaches almost imperceptibly to her throat where, on a scrap of black ribbon lies a tarnished locket which he hasn't noticed before, lying just below her larynx. A long, thin finger unconsciously traces a faded insignia that he can't make out clearly in the flickering half darkness as she watches him with wide, frightened eyes for a fraction of a second longer than she really should before bobbing a hasty curtsey and turning to lead him through the remainder of the shadowy hallway and up the flickering, rickety stairway where the lamp's guttering flame continues to cast great leaping shadows over the peeling walls and faded prints that he is too absorbed to really pay close attention to. The faded insignia dances before his eyes; a flickering flash of an eagle rampant; its wings outstretched as if it, like the passionate fire radiating from every pore of Enjolras' body as it fought against the claw like grip tangled in his mop of angelic golden curls was trying to burst the boundaries of its metal prison as the worn inscription written on the back as she twists the locket between nervous fingers paints itself across his brain; the words suddenly as memorable as a childhood lullaby.

'_Cher M. _

'_Nous vous amions avec nos deux cœurs,_

_Ne nous oubliez pas,_

_Votre Aigles,_

_B et J.'_

_3 Juin 1832_

He sighs; refusing to try and even contemplate puzzling over the meaning of the inscription and passes a weary hand over his exhausted eyes, welcoming the temporary darkness in the space behind his eyelids. Futilely he tries to quell the sudden rush of panicked dread from swooping through his being and settling in a tight knot of painful anxiety deep within the pit of his stomach as the unknown words continue to dance through his exhausted brain.

The flickering lamplight that illuminates the shadowy profile of the girl as she pushes a door to his left open; allowing a flickering puddle of silver moonlight to cascade its way out of the half open window onto the single iron bestead. Deep within the corners of the room he spies a washstand rising like a chipped china phantom out of the shadows and the hard backed shadow of a plain wooden chair sitting before the rising form of a simple writing desk complete with a built in ink stand. A breath of relief that he doesn't know he's holding flutters through his mouth as he stands in the doorway, allowing his eyes to take in the shadowy simplicity of the chamber. _Perfect. Simple, clear -cut, understated. Perfect._

The shadow of a single sheath of paper flutters through a sudden gust of humid air as he feels a small smile tug at the corners of his lips. He can feel the heat of her gaze on him; feel the crushing sense of inexplicable sadness radiate from her lithe frame in waves as she bobs a hurried curtsey and makes to leave when in a moment of sheer madness he reaches out a trembling hand to stop her; his fingers dancing for the security of another's touch as he grips her arm; feeling the warmth of her skin rising through the thick black cotton sticking to the trembling limb as he pulls her close; desperate to know, desperate to make sure that the suspicions that have been clawing at the corners of his brain ever since he glimpsed the French inscription on the locket are completely groundless and are merely the result of the choking heat and the sudden stress of the days' events. _That's all they are _he tells himself firmly. _They don't mean anything._

She turns too quickly, spinning round in his hold; her wide, dark eyes suddenly alive with fear as she gazes up at his desperate gaze flickering in and out of the shadowy flame of the guttering lamp. 'Sir…?' The question is little more than a frightened breath as she gazes up at him; her lithe body desperately trying to evade his clutching grasp. He holds her close, one hand clutched around her slim waist as thick fingers dance up the pit of her larynx to clutch at the locket. Her eyes widen at the sudden, unknown and frankly unwelcome touch and she jerks away; wrenching one hand up out his grasp to grab at the locket and pull it back into her grasp; her fingers shivering slightly as they curl protectively over the tarnished metal, pressing it firmly against the taught skin of below the rising bone of her voice box. 'Please sir.' Her voice is little more than a whisper as he watches her index finger trace the faded lines of the engraved eagle; her eyes suddenly filled with a silent, desperate sense of longing that jars across his being in a sudden rush of misunderstanding. 'Please…' She all but whispers again and he can hear the tears in her voice as she gazes up at him; silver sparkles of salty sadness dancing amid the liquid pools of liqueur coloured brilliance. 'My boys… It's all I have left of them… Please….'

'Boys?' He asks, not understanding. She nods silently; a single tear slicing her cheek as she hastily reached up to brush it away. Her gaze is suddenly full of wistful pathos as she gazes at hi; silently begging for him to understand even though she knows he doesn't as her hands clutch at the cold metal pressing deep into the warmth of her skin.

'They were like brothers to me,' she whispers finally, her French accent becoming more prominent with every tear stained syllable. 'They… They fought for what they believed in and… ' Now he understands, or at least he thinks he does as the jagged pieces of this scattered jigsaw finally begin to fall into place. _Paris. The barricades. Student insurgents daring to take on the full might of Louis Philippe and his National Guard. _Dimly he remembers reading a faded newspaper cutting sent in from his twin office in Paris after the student revolution had been crushed by the full might of the Parisian National Guard. Remembers the straight black letters jumping out of the crumpled paper; letters that had spoken of destruction, of vagabonds, criminals to the State and Crown, of streets awash with the sickingly scarlet blood of those foolhardy martyrs who had dreamt of releasing France from the tyrannical hands of the Bourgeois and yet were now little more than blank faced corpses whose lives had been sliced short with as much care as a farmer sheathing a field of wheat at harvest time. Remembers the sudden, swooping feeling of inexplicable hatred that had crashed over him as he read that some of the rebels; a select few along with the grievously injured, Icarian leader had managed the impossible and had escaped under the very noses of the generals sent to flush them out of the slowly awakening Parisian houses of Rue St Denis bathed in the cool, grey light dawn.

How he wishes they had been found! How he wishes the soldiers had been able to dispense the justice that these common criminals barely out of University and the clutches of their Fathers deserved! And yet here they were; these dark eyed boys standing in proud defiance alongside the blazing azure orbs of their golden leader; haunting his every waking moment as they slowly but surely pick away at his already fragile conscious until it is nothing but scraps of scarlet ribbon fluttering pitifully in a thick, June dawn. Almost unconsciously he feels the weight of Enjolras' blood on his hands; the blood of yet another French Martyr, a gloriously furious revolutionary archangel bathed in the flames of triumph as he gazed in prideful disdain at his broken psyche. A fallen angel who lies in his final scarlet sacrifice to his beloved Patria; a marble statue lying smashed at the foot of the Altar and yet why does he still not feel complete?

'Sir?' The girls' voice is rough with emotion as he is forced out of his reverie like a quick twist to the wrist. 'Will that be all?' He watches her honey coloured eyes flicker over his face; taking in the conflicting emotions dancing like dreams over his features; reading him as easily as a child's first book. He nods, but still refuses to relinquish his grip on her wrist; feeling his nails dig deep into the soft, fleshy skin; remembering all too clearly the hard, harsh lines of Enjolras' cheek rising through his fingers as the angel continued to glare at him, his whole being burning with an unknown, passionate fire.

_'I knew you would come. I knew you would take me. Go ahead. Take me. Destroy me. Break my body beyond repair and throw my ashes to the winds of time and change a thousand times over; but you will never destroy us completely. You will never snuff out our candle of hope, because you will never find it. Go ahead. I am ready. Do your worst.'_

'They're alive.' His voice is barely a whisper; the words feeling jarringly alien as they slip over his tongue, all the while watching her face. Her eyes widen at this; a sudden flash of confused fear dancing through the honey coloured strands as the blow falls onto a body not yet ready to accept it. He nods, almost unconsciously loosening his grip on her arm, willingly for her to understand and yet cursing himself inwardly as her mouth opens and shuts in a breathy 'oh' of surprise. From the unknown bowels of the house, he hears a woman's shout; harsh, country vowels floating up the stairwell and she starts; eyes widening in shock as the realisation hits her. Dimly he sees the unspoken question dancing in the huge, dark pupils as she stares at him in mute disbelief.

'_Alive? But… But how? Where?'_ He doesn't reply but instead digs his free hand into the dark confines of his coat pocket and draws out the scrap of paper that has been clutched in his fist for what seems like an eternity. A scrap of paper which only hours ago he had had no knowledge of until Emily bore it into his study on his silver letter tray. He feels his fingers shiver slightly as they smooth out the crumpled, flattened wood pulp; his eyes dancing over the words he now knows by heart as he extends his hand to hers, feeling the trembling warmth of her fingers as she takes it as gently as if it were gossamer and could so easily be smashed. He watches her eyes widen in surprise as she reads the faded print; her tongue poking out between her front teeth as she glances up at him; unshed silver tears dancing in her irises as she clutches the paper against her locket.

'Thank you Sir', she whispers and he really wishes she wouldn't because she has no idea what he has just done for her, done to himself; how can she? He barely sees her hurried scrap of a curtsey before she hurries to the door; eager not to incite her employer's wrath as he hears heavy footsteps and the sound of a woman's voice, a loud, country croak begin to climb the stairs. She pauses at the door as he crosses the room to the wash stand and pours himself a basin of icy liquid; desperately wanting to scrub away any and all the traces he has of Enjolras' blood off his being and wanting to do it alone without her dark eyed scrutiny surveying his every move. But still she remains, one long fingered hand gripping the doorknob, her expression distant as she watches him; as if she is internally calculating how much she can reveal about herself to him now that he has finally granted her this blissful reprieve. He sees her teeth begin to worry at her lower lip as she swallows and lifts her head, allowing the door to ease open ever so slightly in order to make him see that she really intends to leave.

'Muschietta'. The word is a whispered kiss as she leans her weight against the bare, unpolished wood and tightens her hold on the doorknob. He nods and turns back to the washstand and the cracked mirror balancing perilously on a squint wooden shelf set above the basin. His reflection swims up through the tarnished glass; distorted and full of confused shadows as Enjolras' blazingly passionate eyes seem to swim before his own; his witheringly glacial glare full of silent, haughty contempt. He glares back at it, feeling the age old feelings of inexplicable loathing lap at his throat as the golden God seems to blur before his exhausted eyes. '_It is not yet over Icarus.'_ He tells the reflection; but whether that's in his head or in reality, he doesn't know as a sliver of silver moon slips once more from a heavy violet cloud and an unknown carriage rumbles across the street, many floors below.

'_It will never be over, my Phoenix prince. You cannot hide forever, you know that. Even if you are alive, you will always be hunted, always be on the run. Your days of freedom are numbered my golden haired Apollo and I will bide my time. I will wait. I will never give up and you will never be free of me. Not now.'_

**_A/N: Please feel free to read and review! Comments, questions, constructive criticisms etc are like chocolate to my brain! Don't worry, I will be returning to Enjolras and Les Amis de l'ABC in the next chapter, so please do not _****_despair! _**

**_Much love and enjoy x_**

**_Note on text  
_**

**_Original French text (Google Translate- blame that if it's wrong!)_**

'_Cher M._

'_Nous vous amions avec nos deux cœurs,_

_Ne nous oubliez pas,_

_Votre Aigles,_

_B et J.'_

_3 Juin 1832_

**_English translation_**

_'Dear M._

_We love you with both our hearts,_

_Don't forget us,_

_Your Eagles,_

_B and J'_

_3rd June 1832_


	18. Permets-tu?

_**A/N: At last, at long last and after finally getting through a serious period of horrible writers' block, I am finally allowed to present the next instalment of Out of the Darkness! This is for Marseille of Rainwillmaketheflowersgrow and Sarahbob- I honestly can't thank either of them enough for all the support and guidance they've given me over this story and my other works concerning Les Miserables and I love and thank both of them from the bottom of my heart! **_

_**Disclaimer: As I am not Male, French or living in C19th Paris- how can I possibly own Les Miserables? I am simply trying to convey my love for Enjolras, Grantaire and the rest of Les Amis de l'ABC into something cohesive- please don't sue me! **_

_**Much love and enjoy! x**_

Permets-tu?

It's been forty-eight hours. It's been forty-eight hours, but to Grantaire the fact that it has almost been two days since this strange new reality that he had almost begun to understand had been shattered before his eyes means little as he sits in the hard backed chair pulled up as close to the bed as he dares; a shaking hand clasped in the limp, blood splattered hold of his beloved, fallen angel.

From outside the high slashed window, the broken cynic can just make out the faint traces of a cool grey, pink flecked dawn slowly creeping its' way up over the sprawling lawns of their fragile haven although the fact that he has spent yet another sleepless night sitting beside the bed of his golden God, his Apollo, his fiery Phoenix prince now lying in a heap of smashed, bloody marble in a means nothing because for some inexplicable reason he knows he can't leave now. Has known it ever since he saw the sleek, icily metallic coldness of the revolver rising with painful slowness lodging itself deep within Enjolras' temple; felt the unknown, unwelcome hands holding him, restraining him as he struggled through the choking, bearlike grip; desperately trying to reach his Apollo before it was too late, even though some part of his screaming brain was telling him that it was already too late as he saw the burst of sickingly scarlet blood, the body crumpling to the bare stone floor, the bloody pain ripping itself through his mouth as he had furiously begged his brain to be lying to him because this wasn't happening, couldn't be happening….

Almost unconsciously he feels a trembling digit reach up to brush a blood caked curl out of fluttering, azure orbs; the trembling finger shivering slightly with supressed emotion as it dances over the marble skin. A faint, pained moan flutters and dies out of the icy, blood caked lips as Grantaire feels the other presence in the shadowy chamber slowly slips towards the bed and kneels up against the mattress; one shaking hand slowly reaching up to look for the flickering, fluttering pulse throbbing feebly through the inky blue veins scarring the marble tendons of his neck.

The grip on Enjolras' fingers tightens almost unconsciously as Grantaire feels an unwanted breath hitching and dying in his suddenly barren mouth as he feels Combeferre's eyes on him; liquid pools of dark, exhausted emotion as he finally allows himself to tear his gaze from the marble mask that is still marred with the scarlet remnants of his final bloody sacrifice to his beloved Patria. A blood stained gauze caresses his beloved Apollo's forehead, the material sweeping its way up over the angelic mop of golden curls as Grantaire watches Combeferre slowly reach up to find a pulse; dark eyes brimming with pained emotion as salt stained lips brush the hard, fine lines of his best friends' cheek.

'_Hold on Enjolras, please? We need you petit… Come back…' _The words are little more than a choked; tear stained whisper as Enjolras' head shifts slightly in sleep, emotions dancing like dreams over the alabaster masterpiece as his sleeping body tenses at Combeferre's touch. A sudden flash of unconscious pain flickers through the still closed lids and Grantaire can't bear it as he hardly hears Combeferre's mumbled apology as he continues his work. Can't bear the sight of his fiery Phoenix being completely at the mercy of some unknown agony that was bestowed upon him by a man whose sole purpose was to knock one of heavens' angels out of the sky and watch it fall towards the cruel brutalities of mortal men. Dimly, he hears the sound of a door being slid silently shut and the swish of linen as unknown fingers brush at his shoulders; desperate for the security of another's touch.

Unknown hands enfold his shivering body for the briefest of moments as he gratefully leans into the touch; all too soon feeling it slowly slip away into the remains of the shadows that continue to cling to the remnants of the room and moves to sit at the other side of the bed; a long fingered hand adorned with a simple golden band set with a single diamond softly reaching up to brush away a stray lock of golden brilliance that has fallen from the bandage's embrace. Enjolras leans into the touch softly as Grantaire watches the long lashed lids flutter and fail; a sliver of azure blue that is clouded with pained sleep barely visible as a single, pained breath falling out of a bloody mouth as a confused, whispered question rises through the virgin lips. '_Mère__? The others… Are… Are they…?__ ' _Flora nods in silent reassurance as she lightly takes his good hand in hers; bright, blue eyes the exact replicas of her sons' as she gently massages the tense digits between her own; trying to rekindle the passionate flame of life once more.

'I'm here René.' Her voice is little more than a whisper as a flame of recognition flickers and gutters deep within the wide, dark pupils dilated by the purity of the pain. Grantaire can't watch and can't stop himself as Enjolras nods painfully; allowing his eyes to flutter over the rest of the room, widening at the sight of Combeferre and Grantaire and the shadowy pink flecked dawn that is slowly creeping its way over the horizon. 'I'm here Mon Petit, you're safe now. It's alright.' _Safe. _The word feels jarringly alien against Grantaire's being as he glances over to where Combeferre is sitting with his hand resting lightly on his Chief's uninjured shoulder; compassionate exhaustion pulling at his features as he lovingly brushes away a stray scar of salt that is slicing Enjolras' cheek as his eyes flicker and fail; desperately trying to remain focussed.

_But are they really safe? Truly? How can they be really safe if that officer…? Now he knows…? _Furiously he tries to banishes the thought from his mind, but still it seems to claw at his fragile psyche, feeding the dark mass of doubts that have massed in the unknown crevices of his mind; slowly and surely picking away at his shattered conscious until there is nothing left but scraps of scarlet fabric blowing pitifully into a thick, claustrophobic June dawn. Without warning he remembers Enjolras' tirade at the Barrière de Maine; sees the blazing eyes boring down into his own as his furious Archangel watched him; contempt and dislike etched in every line of finely worked, azure brilliance. Remembers too the icy contempt dripping from each spat out syllable as he glared down at the green glass bottle that had been clutched in his fist. '_You are incapable of believing, of willing, of living and of dying. You do not believe in anything.' _If only Enjolras could see how wrong he was! If only he could understand! '_But I do believe in you Apollo. You know I do… I just… I need… I need you….' _

From outside the door, Grantaire can just make out the lisping pleas of Gavroche and Georges; voices that are joined by the harsh Polish undertones of Feuilly alongside the forced joviality of Courfeyrac which is marred with a crushing sense of anxious pain as the door is firmly closed. Grantaire feels a small smile that is still tinged with anxiety tug at the corner of his mouth as he imagines the look of pleading innocence leaping high in Gavroche's blue-grey eyes and silently thanks God or whoever is listening for sparing the gamin from the horrors of the barricade and their escape from the blood soaked memories of Paris. Memories that are now lying dormant within the darkest crevices of his brain, biding their time, waiting until he is at his most vulnerable before they plan their next assault.

'R?' Enjolras' voice, so usually filled with the bright, hopeful flames of passionate love for his beloved Patria, but is now little more than a harsh, pained rasp scraping through the choking morning air brings him spiralling back to the present like a quick, painful twist to the wrist. He can feel Enjolras' eyes on him; twin baths of glacial intensity piercing his fragile soul like a knife that is being slowly twisted through his heart; relishing in the sweetly scarlet sacrifice that is weeping from his shattered heart as he lifts his head; desperately trying to control the sudden torrent of painful, disjointed memories which he can't and doesn't want to understand from falling in broken disarray through his brain. They come despite his efforts; tugging at him, drowning him in a swirling oblivion of dark rainbows which, try as he might, he cannot seem to throw off and instead feels himself finally submit to the darkness of his exhausted brain.

_A large, dark room so usually full of the fraternal stink of amicable and yet almost feverish expectation for the beloved Revolution now filled with the dark shadows of death as Fate continues on her perverted rounds along the Barricade, steadily slicing each silver, insignificant life before its' time. Tiny, insignificant lives filled with such bright, hopeful potential only deemed fit enough to be sliced with as much care as a farmer sheathing a field of wheat at harvest time. Oh God... Bahorel... Bossuet... Jehan... Joly... Eponine Thenardier... The students... The countless, nameless students and workers who had risen to Enjolras' scarlet standard so valiantly and yet were only deemed worthy enough to be sliced down by the thrust of a bayonet or the chattering musket chorus... 'Vive la France! Vive l'avenir!' Shadows of bodies, of men little more than boys who had given their lives fighting for freedom; fighting so that Enjolras' beloved Patria could one day rise up out of the ashes of the old Bourgeois tyranny. A broken band of revolutionary dreamers lying in their final, scarlet sacrifice to their Motherland… The harsh, ragged iambs of his heart thudding through his chest as he hears the harsh bark of the National Guard, stumbling through a drunken haze that hangs thickly within a blood soaked silence…_

_A tattered scrap of the scarlet Liberty flag slashing through the silence in a final, passionate stand for the bright, white land of Freedom as a bloody, broken and yet beautiful archangel stood against the cool red dawn rising through the soft grey sky of early morning. An archangel with a halo of golden curls sullied with a cloak of blood and shit that seemed to catch in the first, faint rays of the white, weak sun creeping up through the shocked silence that had enveloped the softly slumbering houses of Rue St Denis in a thick, perverted embrace. The first, weak rays of summer sunlight seem to caress his Apollo, catch him, ignite the passionate embers of fiery life until he burns; glowing like a Phoenix rising out of the blood soaked ashes as he faced down the muskets; his very being commanding the tumult of the guards into a sudden, inexplicable silence. He feels his breath catch in his throat as he stands a silence that is suddenly and eerily complete; watching the azure orbs radiating the ragged, passionate intensity that he has come to love so completely as they glare down into the shrouded faces of the guardsmen. A shout. An animalistic roar of pain ripping through a mouth suddenly dry with fear as he struggles to reach him, hands suddenly slick with what feels like blood but it can't… He can't… No… No… This is just a dream… Just a drunken nightmare and I'll wake up… Please… I've got to wake up… And yet the body is falling; a shattered marble statue, a fallen angel lying in his final, stinking scarlet to his beloved Patria, to his people, to his country…_

'_You do not believe in anything!' A body falling as if in slow motion as the shot rings out, shattering their fragile haven as easily as if it were glass… The weight of the sullied, golden halo rising through his fingers as he feels the sobs crowd round his bloody mouth; thick howls of grief falling choked and broken through Enjolras' hair as his fingers carded themselves through spun sunlight. _

'_Don't leave me Apollo... Please… please don't leave me. Please… I can't do this… Please come back… I believe in you… I do… I just…' Words falling in a jumbled mass of tear stained syllables as he feels Adrienne's slim weight pull him into a capable, clutching embrace; whispered words of comfort falling unheeded into his hair as he howled like a wounded dog into her chest, shaking digits fisting themselves into the soft linen of her gown, clinging to her like a sailor clinging to a scrap of to a scrap of driftwood amid a storm tossed sea…. Pained, unsteady footsteps tripping blindly through a drunken haze thick with death, fear and shock towards a fallen angel, a golden God bathed in a blood soaked gold standing in all his fiery glory as he glares down the barrels of the muskets; his shirt ripped at the collar; white cotton stained with a cloak of mud, blood and sweat ripped away to expose the marble chest soon to be sullied with a final bloody sacrifice to his beloved Patria, his cravat lost, his scarlet jacket caked with a coat of blood and shit as the bright blue eyes blazing passionate, almost mockingly silent fire widened slightly in surprise as words he hardly understands falls from his lips; words falling through his brain and onto a hot, heavy tongue that speak of a bravery he does not feel, of a courage he does not have as he moves through the shocked shadows; each footstep, each laboured iamb of his heart seeming to last a lifetime._

'_Long live the Republic! I'm one of them!' He does not need the tiny voice of reason that is struggling to overcome the growing sense of foolhardy courage that is lapping palpably at his throat to tell him that this is madness. That his Apollo, his revolutionary Archangel, his beacon of fiery life and hope should not have his final sacrificed sullied by the presence of the drunken cynic; the lowlife whose inability to believe in the fiery, fantastical dreams of a France in which both Bourgeois and gamin alike could live in the bright, white land of peaceful Freedom could besmirch the bright, eager hearts and readied minds of those willing followers whose convictions rang with truth; whose lives glowed with the hopeful, passionate fires of courageous energy for their beloved cause. And yet… _

'_Long live the Republic!' The words seem oddly alien and yet strangely familiar to his ringing ears, distant reminders of a previous existence that he does not understand entirely. A flash of something he can't quite place flickering the wide, azure orbs as his Apollo watches the broken wine case walk steadily towards him; unaware of the ragged desperation of his heart as it strains in a broken rhythm against his chest, unaware of the sweat that has doused his palms in waves of silent, icy fear as he moves slowly through the shocked guards; emerald eyes fixed on the bright, blue baths of icy intensity glowing with pride and yet alive with fear as they take in his staggering process as Pylades trips blindly towards his beloved Orestes; step by painful step. A calloused palm reaching for the security of another's touch, thick, sweat soaked digits fumbling for the security of the marble skin as Dionysus turns towards Apollo, eyes shining. Five words. Fives words that are little more than a whispered breath as he gazes into the azure orbs one last time before turning to face the silently deadly chorus who have been sent to deal their destiny. A flash of blinding, excruciating agony. Marble fingers suddenly slick with sweat slipping away from his, the connection being slowly but surely severed by Fate's cruel shears as he reaches for it, desperately trying to fight the pain that makes no sense… No… Don't leave me… Please Enjolras… Please Apollo… I need you… Please… Please don't leave me… _

_The sensation of being flung backwards into oblivion; unable to move, unable to cry out, unable to do anything at all as he sees the image of a body lying in a pool of blood floating through the shadows and it can't be… It can't… He can't… The words just don't apply to him, cannot apply to an archangel so full of the roaring infernos of fervent fire… A body with a halo of golden curls, the marble skin sullied by a dark necklace of weeping bullet holes, the azure orbs so usually filled with passionate life and hope…. A Phoenix rising up out of the smouldering ashes of the Barricade, soaring in a blaze of flame into the cold, clear land of peaceful Freedom; its' fiery wings splattered with the remnants of a final, scarlet sacrifice to his beloved Patria who stands waiting, clutching the scarlet flag of Liberty, her tricolour ribbons fluttering in the icy, blood soaked dawn as she smiles at him; her wide, dark eyes shining with undiluted compassionate admiration for her golden haired Icarus, her fiery Lieutenant returning back to the realms of the angels in a blaze of passionate glory…. Whispered words… A soft, pained smile… 'Do you permit it?'_

'Grantaire? Grantaire!' The sound of his name falling in a rasping, pained croak brings him spiralling back into reality like a quick, painful twist to the wrist. The world comes back slowly as he struggles back into the icy clarity of realty; painfully pulling a silently screaming body back into the present; away from the blood soaked pain of his memories that he is desperately trying to forget. _But are they really memories? Did any of it really happen? _He doesn't know and suddenly doesn't want to think about it as the world shifts weirdly through pain filled eyes as he feels a steadying hand clutch at his shoulder, thick digits steadily grounding him into a reality that he still doesn't understand completely. Dimly, he feels a hand cup his chin; a firm, known hand forcing his head up as a shaking finger traces the line of his cheek as words he doesn't understand falls from salt stained lips. Something about alcohol… Something about his head… He doesn't understand and all he knows is that he needs to see Enjolras, he has to see Enjolras; has to make sure that he is still with them, still with him, that he isn't lying in a pool of stinking scarlet blood; that the marble statue is not sullied by a dark necklace of weeping bullet holes, that he is alive and the swirling abyss of memories that continue to tug at his fragile psyche are nothing more than the effects of alcohol withdrawal and exhaustion.

_That's all they are,_ he tries telling himself with as much firmness as he can muster; futilely trying to quell the flurries of panicked fear that are leaping like hungry flames at the base of his parched throat. _They don't mean anything; they can't mean anything. He's alive. He's alive and you are dreaming Lucien. You've got to be dreaming. This is just a drunken nightmare. Just a drunken nightmare and you'll wake up; you've got to wake up. Please… Please just let me wake up…_

The sudden sensation of hands on his face, fingers shaking with emotive urgency. He feels his head fall into the touch, as if his neck cannot support his weight. A calming, soothing voice that he suddenly can't quite place talking to him in a low, soft tone as he feels a thick, trembling digit feel press down for a pulse and a heavy breath of relief fluttering through unknown lips as it throbs painfully through the taught tendons of his neck. 'Grantaire? Look at me, 'Taire, please?' _Combeferre. Combeferre… Is he…? Are they…? I thought… Oh God… I don't know… I won't do it again, I promise! Please! Please don't leave me…. I won't drink again; I tried to stop, but it's hard and Enjolras… Enjolras… I saw… I thought… Oh 'Ferre…. Tell me this is just just a dream and I'll wake up… Just a drunken nightmare and I'll wake up… _

He blinks painfully; the world slowly spinning itself back into painful clarity as something icily metallic is pressed to his lips and capable hands cup his head, slowly encouraging him to drink; his lips relishing in the icy bliss as it surges without restraint down his burning throat. Large, dark eyes shielded by wire framed spectacles alive with worry seem to swim in and out of focus as a hand slips into his shaking, sweat soaked palm; tense digits curling in silent invitation as he squeezes back with as much force as he can muster. An unheeded, choking sob rises and dies in his throat as his eyes flicker desperately away from the compassionate concern etched in every finely worked line of walnut coloured brilliance because he needs to see him, needs to make sure that he is still here, that the images still flashing through his screaming brain in painful clarity are nothing more than images brought on by the pain and stress of the past two days and are not real, they can't be real…. Azure orbs that are full of confused, pained emotion that are still clouded somewhat by the nagging vestiges of sleep… A mop of sweat soaked golden curls pushed off the high, marble forehead with its' ghostly smattering of freckles by the bandages caressing the deadly wound inflicted by a man whose sole purpose was to knock one of heavens' vanguard from its perch and watch it fall in a shower of blood splattered, silver wings…

'Grantaire?' He can feel Combeferre's grip on his shoulder tighten momentarily, his tone though gentle; full of probing urgency as he shakes his head; flicking his gaze up to Enjolras whose eyes widen in sudden, painful understanding as he tries to push himself into a sitting position; ignoring the screaming protests of silent agony from his shattered muscles as he reaches out to the cynic; suddenly desperate for the security of another's touch. '_Oh Grantaire, I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. It's over, I promise. Can you forgive me Mon Ami?' _Grantaire slowly extracts himself from Combeferre's hold; a silent apology flickering from the cynic to the guide, which he accepts with wide eyes as his fingers trail for a final time over the salt scarred cheek and relinquishes his grip on the shivering drunkard as he watches him make his way slowly towards the bed.

'Oh Grantaire', Enjolras' voice is little more than a pained, rasping breath which is choked with emotion as he watches Grantaire stumble the last few yards towards his beloved Apollo before finally allowing his knees to give way. He can feel the sobs that he has tried for so long to prevent crowding round his mouth, teasing his tongue into action as he finally succumbs to the dark well of emotion and buries his head in the cotton sheets; his cries muffled by the thick, sweat soaked fabric. 'It's alright R', he can just about make out Enjolras' voice and he clings to it, relishing in every word that falls from the virgin lips as he raises his eyes to meet the azure orbs of his beloved Apollo. 'I'm here, it… It's…' He pauses, an involuntary breath hitching and dying in his throat as a flickering flash of pain dances through the ice blue irises. In an instant, Combeferre is beside the bed; his warm, thick weight pressed up next to Grantaire as he grips his best friends' shoulder in silent reassurance.

'I… I saw… I thought…' The tear -stained words are muffled through the thick fabric and Combeferre's frame and for that he is glad as he feels Enjolras' good hand slowly reach across the space that separates them and take his fingers lightly in his own; numb digits shivering with exhaustion as they move up to card themselves through Grantaire's mop of greasy curls; softly dancing through the darkness as the cynic finally allows his eyes to meet those of his beloved Apollo. _'I saw you die.' _He wants to say, the words catching and falling through the darkness of his throat. '_I saw the guards, I heard the shots and I tried to reach you, but I… I couldn't… I wanted to, but you… You said… You said that I was__ incapable of believing, of willing, of living and of dying and I...I…__' _Enjolras nods sadly as his good hand works its way down Grantaire's cheek; the salty skin shivering at the pressure as numb digits cup his chin; pressing their foreheads together in a silent act of reassurance. Grantaire can almost taste the small, sad smile tugging at Combeferre's lips as he watches them; settled back in his hard backed chair as Enjolras traces the cynics' cheek with the index finger of his good hand as he pulls Grantaire closer in a clumsy, one armed embrace. 'I know'. He whispers back, the words lost within Grantaire's hair. 'I know I did and I…' He pauses to catch his breath again and swallows, the azure orbs refusing to leave Grantaire's salt- scarred face as he pulls away again, a lone finger still cupping the cynic's cheek. 'I was angry and I didn't know, I didn't understand and I wanted to, Mon Dieu R, I wanted to try and understand but…'

And finally Grantaire understands as he sees the heartbreaking concern etched deep within every strand of azure brilliance, pressing his forehead closer; relishing in the flickering warmth radiating from every pore of alabaster skin; so that their hair entangles itself, golden locks swirling with ebony curls as he gazes into the passionate flames locked within the bright blue irises and smiles despite himself. Without warning, he feels the words he has known for so long and yet never spoken; never fully understood why he knows them and their significance rise to his lips as softly and as surely as dreams as Enjolras places a sweeping, suddenly salt stained kiss against his forehead; a small, tight smile dancing fleetingly across the marble features.

'_Permets-tu?'_

**_A/N: Please feel free to read and review! Comments, suggestions, questions, constructive criticisms etc are like chocolate to my brain! _**

**_The next chapter may take a little while to put up as I'm getting ready for University and will be away for a few days with little or no internet, so please accept my deepest thanks for anyone who deems this fit enough to be read and reviewed as well as my sincere apologies!_**

**_Much love and enjoy x_**


	19. At Times It Does Hurt To Be Healed

_**A/N: Another chapter for all the amazing people who have stuck with this story and my other works. You have no idea how much it means to me to think that my work is appreciated and I love and thank you with all my heart! Thank you!**_

_**Disclaimer: As I am not Male, French, or living in C19th Paris, how can I possibly own Les Miserables? I am simply trying to convey my love for Enjolras, Combeferre and Courfeyrac into something cohesive- please don't sue me!**_

_**Note on text: Chapter title stolen from 'Make Up Your Mind/Catch Me I'm Falling' from Next To Normal- needless to say, I do not own that wonderful Broadway show, although I really wish I did! **_

At Times It Does Hurt To Be Healed

It takes a month. A month of slow rehabilitation, of exercises, of Gavroche reciting Polish poetry in a lisping, gutter French accent complete with Feuilly's smiling, dark eyed corrections whilst snuggled up beside his phoenix prince, his head of dirty-blonde curls resting on his leaders' uninjured shoulder as thin, bony arms lock themselves around his shirt; blue-grey eyes shining with heart achingly beautiful, childish pride, of learning how to breathe properly with blood soaked lungs, of constant stimuli that normally comes from either Combeferre or Courfeyrac sitting on the hard backed chair pulled up beside the bed reading from the dog eared, water stained copies of Rousseau, Saint Just, Robespierre, Desmoulins and Danton that Henriette had secreted away from the house in Amiens, or Grantaire playing chess with him in the evenings in a room stinking with fraternal companionship, of the painful process of learning how to write with his right hand and getting used to the strange black swirls of his new, loopy script jumping out of flattened wood pulp before Enjolras begins to feel remotely whole again.

His body still aches; numbing bursts of fiery pain erupting at random intervals up and down his shattered limbs every time Combeferre helps him stretch out his injured leg in order to massage the muscles or asks him to wiggle his fingers or clench a fist to make sure that the digits in his broken arm which are thick with lack of use are still working properly or tells him to hold his breath so that he can change the bandages that still caress his broken chest; but he is reassured daily that these injuries will heal.

But it is not the physical pain that troubles him. It is not the fact that he now suffers from agonizing headaches that make him feel as if a whole platoon of National Guardsmen is doing exercises across his forehead as the silent, determined pain slices through his brain. It is not the fact that his broken arm still feels like a dead weight against his chest as Combeferre helps him sit up in bed one afternoon in late August; dark eyes full of undiluted, compassionate emotion; thick fingers curling into his shivering palm as he checked his pulse and begins to change his bandages; completing each task with a sweeping, whispered kiss as he leant into the comforting weight of his first and best lieutenant, the steady throbbing iambs of his heart straining through his shirt sending him to sleep faster than any lullaby as he silently relishes in the fact that he is here; that they are together, pure and whole in the knowledge and safety of their friendship.

Those injures will heal with time; or so Combeferre constantly reassures him, but it is the mental pain that flashes through his broken mind in black, blood soaked tendrils of excruciating agony that worry him most. The clawing, nagging feelings of guilt and grief that threatens to drown him every time he sees his remaining band of revolutionary dreamers together and yet knows, tastes the presence of those whose little lives had only been deemed fit enough to be snapped short by the thrust of a bayonet or the chatter of the musket chorus. _Bahorel, Bossuet, Jehan, Joly, Eponine Thenardier and the students… Oh dear God… The countless, nameless students and workers who had rallied so valiantly to his scarlet Liberty standard, had been united as one by their passionate love for Patria and whose final scarlet sacrifice had been little more than choking, sweetly sickingly blood seeping through the dust cobblestones of Rue St Denis and it is his fault… All his fault… If he had given himself up the first time, if he; a fallen God, a cracked marble statue, the broken inciter of a failed dream had been able to trade his life for theirs when Javert was first tracking them; then maybe they would be able to stop running. They would be able to taste the sweet wine of freedom in peaceful harmony without constantly looking over their shoulders and yet… Oh my friends, my friends don't ask me, what your sacrifice was for!_

The sounds of the last innings of a cricket match filter up through the open window; the air swelling with the thrill of childish excitement as he hears Gavroche claim a wicket against Tommy the stable lad; a tall, coltish fifteen year old with wise, sad eyes and a wicked grin who lived in the village and had taken a shine to Gavroche from the moment he had found the gamin loitering around the blacksmith down at the farm and had asked if he could learn how to polish brass. The sound of Grantaire's commentary makes the corners of Enjolras' mouth twitch upwards as he flicks his gaze over to Combeferre who is packing away his medical bag and jotting down observations in miniscule writing in his notebook. 'How long?' The question hangs in the air for a fraction of a second, the words feeling strangely alien on his tongue as he raises his gaze to meet the small, sad smile playing at the corners of Combeferre's lips as he tucks the pencil into the spine of the book and pulls the hard backed chair closer to the bed as thick, gentle fingers lightly take the fingers of Enjolras' good hand in his and squeezes softly; liqueur brown orbs filled with heart breaking concern as they search the bright blue eyes of his oldest friend for some indication of where this question comes from.

'Please 'Ferre', Enjolras holds the guides' gaze with unwavering intensity as he feels Combeferre reach up a trembling finger to trace the scar that slices his neck; a blinding flash of agony that has since faded into a jagged slice of white carving itself through the taught, marble tendons of his neck; the dexterous digits lingering slightly as they shiver over the alabaster flesh. From outside the half open door, he can hear the soft swish of linen as Anna goes about her duties, calling down the stairs to an unknown presence which he hazards a guess as Henriette; her darkly coloured servants garb illuminated by the soft, autumnal sunlight filtering through the skylight set high in the passage ceiling. From the hallway he can just about distinguish Courfeyrac and Marius' voices as they rise and fall through the house; voices that are joined by the soft, deep baritone of M. Frauchlevent and the alto tones of Georges with Gavroche not far behind which filter off into the oblivion of the drawing room.

'A week,' he pauses and Enjolras can feel the weight of the wide, dark eyes that he has come to love so dearly sweeping down from the bandages that continue to caress his forehead to the pale, hollow cheeks; a silent smile cracking in the inky pupils as he takes in Enjolras' look of glacial disdain flashing across the marble features as he huffs in annoyance; barely restraining a sudden, involuntary gasp of pain flickering and dying as his lungs constrict against his ribcage.

Sighing, Combeferre closes the gap between them as he shifts onto the mattress which groans in audible protest at yet more weight and places a hand on Enjolras' uninjured shoulder; the warm pressure of known skin rising through the thin fabric of his nightshirt as his brother in all but blood leans into him; azure orbs wide with pained, pleading emotion as he allows a stray finger to card itself through a lock of spun sunlight that has fallen out of the bandage's embrace. 'Your body needs time to recover little one,' he feels his finger curl itself round the stray strand of hair; feeling the heady tang of expectation radiating from every pore of marble skin as his finger dances across the faint splattering of freckles; remembering with a sudden pang of grief how he had done the exact same gesture mere minutes before their whole world had been shattered into tiny, blood soaked pieces and they had been left; this fragile band of hopeful dreamers to pick up the pieces and repair the broken jigsaw as they best they could. Furiously, he shakes the memory back, feeling the dark tendrils of those painfully clear memories which are as clear and as sharp as glass to his psyche cloud over and slip away into the dark oblivion of nothingness; biding their time, waiting until he is once again, at his most vulnerable.

'To recover', the sudden sound of ice dripping from Enjolras' voice sounds jarringly alien as it slices through the sudden, inexplicable silence that envelopes the two bodies. 'To recover', he repeats slowly and Combeferre feels his heart twist in his chest as he feels Enjolras slowly break the connection, pulling the stiff digits out of the warm security of his guide's touch as he slowly pushes himself further up on his pillows. Combeferre nods sadly, hating himself. He knows how desperately Enjolras wants to be out of this bed, wants to be able regain the flickering thread of independence that is slowly being pulled out of a failing marble grasp, wants to be able to watch over his friends like the leader, the chief, the father he had promised himself he would be. Like the father, the chief he had been as he stood on the barricade; a gloriously furious archangel bathed in a halo of the blood red dawn that had bled itself itself through the cool June dawn surrounding the barricade. '_Citizens, no matter what happens today; we shall be making a revolution.' _

'Combeferre', the sound of his name fluttering through the virgin lips brings him spiralling back through the dark tendrils of his memories like a quick, painful twist to the wrist. 'I… It's been a month 'Ferre…' He can hear the quiet desperation in his soul mates' voice as he gestures down at his emaciated frame, thin, dexterous fingers plucking irritably at the thin cotton of his nightshirt as the azure orbs filled with such pained, ragged intensity that it makes Combeferre really wish that he didn't have to make him obey his orders as he takes Enjolras' wrist in his hand and rises it to his lips; relishing in the warm weight of the marble skin beneath his fingers, in the fact that he is here; battered and broken but whole and pure and real.

'I'm so sorry 'Jol,' he whispers as Enjolras glances down at their joined hands and then back up at him; silently pleading him for it not to be true. From downstairs he can hear the sound of Toussaint and Anna taking a tea tray through to the dining room and the faint hum of chatter rising through the bare, wooden floorboards. How he wishes he could grant Enjolras his wish and allow him to go down and see their friends, their preciously dysfunctional family that by some beautiful act of divine Fate they have been able to create. How he wishes he could just forget everything that his professors at Necker had drummed into his brain about patient recovery and allow Enjolras to make those first steps out of the never ending prison of pain that he has been incarcerated in for so long alone! But he can't. He knows he can't. Painfully the image of Enjolras lying in a pool of sickingly scarlet blood; a beautifully furious, fallen archangel brought crashing down to Earth swims disjointedly before his eyes; the dark tendrils of the memory which he has so desperately tried to forget tugging tantalizingly at the corners of his brain.

_The weight of the blood soaked golden halo rising through numb, trembling fingers as he supported Enjolras' head into his lap; fingers dancing perilously for even a flicker of a pulse; desperately trying to restrain the flutterings of tearful panic that threatened to overwhelm him. The icily symmetrical weight of the blood stained bullet falling in stubborn silence through a calloused palm. Grantaire's broken, sobbing howls of grief as he collapsed next to the body. The blinding, desperate volcano of panic threatening to pull him into its' dark embrace as he struggled to reach the Altar steps; unknown words falling in flurries of tearful panic from his lips… '__Let me through. Please just let me through…. I'm a doctor… I'm a doctor… He's my… He's my friend… He's my brother…. Please let me through… I can help him… Please… Just let me get to him…'_

The sound of a quick knock at the door jolts him out of the dark crevice of his memories for a second time, a knock that is quickly followed by the wonderfully familiar sound of Courfeyrac's voice and the groan of the hinges creaking open with audible protest. ''Ferre? Enjolras? Tea's ready in the drawing room if you want some. Let me in, would you?' He can feel Enjolras' eyes on him as he struggles to banish the image of the long lashed lids barring the azure orbs; the fiery baths of icy intensity whose flame had been snuffed out with as much ease as a hand being cupped over a candle; a silent glimmer of satisfaction that he doesn't really understand glimmering in the wide, dark pupils. The mattress creaks as he pushes off the bed and throws Enjolras a bemused, searching look that is replied to by a painfully raised eyebrow and a sudden glimmer of that wonderfully crooked half-smile which Combeferre realises that he hasn't seen since before the barricade, before his wonderfully evanescent dreams to set France free from the tyrannical hands of the Bourgeois had become his one and only goal. The sight of even a whisper of that small, slightly lopsided smile makes Combeferre's heart soar in his chest and he can't help but feel a grin of his own from tugging at his lips before crossing the cluttered room and letting the centre into their midst.

Courfeyrac gives a mock salute at the sight of Enjolras sitting up in bed which makes the corners of the Chief's mouth twitch and bestows upon Combeferre an overly dramatic bow; who feels his smile broaden as he moves around his friend to close the door, lingering for a moment on the threshold before making his way to the bannister to survey the proceedings of his friends. From his vantage point, he can just see Feuilly with yet another book no doubt ferreted from Henriette's extensive library tucked under his arm being followed by Gavroche who is munching a pastry that was no doubt stolen from the table slathered in Cook's home made raspberry jam and Grantaire making their way to the other guest room along the second floor landing and waves a hand in greeting. 'More poetry!' Feuilly tells him with a grin; onyx coloured eyes shining with undiluted happiness as he reaches out a hand to ruffle Gavroche's mop of dirty blonde curls as the gamin squirms away from him and proceeds to munch his pastry; a melee of pastry crumbs and dribbles of jam staining his collar.

'We're doing…' He pauses and Combeferre swears that he can see the cogs in his brain whirring as his tongue tests the strange Polish sounds against his tongue. 'We're doing Juliusz Slowacki!' He proceeds to tell Combeferre through a mouthful of jam and Combeferre nods in understanding; although he himself has never really felt the urge to divulge deeply into the literature of Feuilly's beloved mother country; he remembers the name from a lone night in the Musain; years ago when Feuilly had just found the group of idealistically passionate students who were striving to free their beloved Patria from the grasp of the Bourgeois and allow the gamines the chance for a brighter, hopeful tomorrow. Feeling his eyes slip shut for a fraction of a second, he silently thanks whoever is listening for saving the bright, blue eyed gamin from the blood soaked terrors of the barricades and allowing him a place in their preciously dysfunctional family alongside the Franco-Polish fan maker turned teacher whose dark eyes are shining as he beams down at his protégé.

Grantaire throws a tight, sad smile in Combeferre's direction, his emerald eyes flickering towards the sliver of light dancing through the half open door to the room of his fiery Phoenix; a sliver of pained sadness dancing in the wide, dark pupils. A flutter of worry swoops through Combeferre's being as he holds the cynic's gaze; trying to ask without words what is paining him. He needn't though. The word, the name is painfully clear within every strand of finely worked emerald brilliance, laced with an eternity of sadness as he shakes his head. '_Enjolras.' _ Combeferre shakes his head in incomprehension and finds himself on the first step of the stairs without fully understanding how he got there. '_He said… He said that I was incapable of believing, of willing, of living and of dying. I… I shouldn't be here 'Ferre… He doesn't want me here…. I… I should… The church… I couldn't… I wanted to but I… I….' _The heart breaking sadness etched deep within every pore of the cynic's being makes Combeferre's heart twist as he shakes his head in a silent, desperate attempt at reassurance.

'_He didn't mean that 'Taire. You know he didn't. He was angry and…' _He doesn't know why he's defending Enjolras for actions which he thought that at the time had been of little consequence; just another argument between the wine soaked Dionysus and his blazingly beautiful Apollo; nothing more. But now… From somewhere near the dining room, he can hear the faint scrape of chairs being pulled roughly across the floorboards and the twinkling slosh of a bottle of elderflower being poured against glass. The rustle of linen against wood and Adrienne steps out of the shadows followed by a beaming, wine flushed Cosette; giddy from some unknown excitement who is glowing in the dusky, sun-soaked light and Marius who still walks with a slight, barely noticeable limp who is gazing down at his laughing angel with an adoration so palpable that Combeferre can almost taste it. Desperately he throws a searching look in Grantaire's direction, wanting to comfort him, wanting to try and make him see how much he means to Enjolras; how much he means to all of them; but the crumbling cynic has slipped away into the dusky shadows of the passageway and despite his misgivings; Combeferre knows not to follow.

'Lucien? Lucien, what's wrong?' Her usually calm, collected tones are full of a palpable anxiety for her brother as she makes to go to him, confused eyes widening slightly as they flicker over in his direction. Grantaire doesn't respond and Combeferre knows that he is not wanted as he watches her hurry along the sun soaked passageway towards the second guest bedroom and understanding. _Why did it have to be so hard? Why, after all the pain, all the shattered hearts, all the wounded cries that they have endured and yet come out whole and pure in the knowledge and love of their friendship; does it have to be so hard?_ The injustices of it all seem to claw at his psyche; pulling at him, threatening to drag him under as he swallows back an inexplicable choking, sobbing scream of rage that he does not understand; feeling the blood in his knuckles gripping the bannister rush to the base of his skin; desperately trying to pull himself together. _He has to be strong. He has to remain strong. He cannot let them do this to him, not now. Not when they have come so far and still survived. Not when… _

''Ferre?' Courfeyrac's voice cuts through his mental mantra like a knife through cloth as he furiously pulls his aching brain back into the present. He feels a hand on his shoulder, thick digits tightening involuntarily as he leans into the touch. 'Are you all right Mon Ami?' He can hear the concern in the centre's voice as he slowly turns to face his friend; watching the hazel coloured eyes flicker concernedly over his face before glancing back towards the bedroom door that Courfeyrac has conveniently left ajar. Combeferre nods silently as he sees Enjolras' azure orbs wide with concern as they watch him out of the high, fine, marble face. Azure orbs that not so long ago, he thought that he would never have the honour of looking on again. Desperately, he tries to force the memory back; feeling its' eager head fall back into the nothingness of oblivion and yet deep down he knows that he will never really be free of it. None of them will.

'I'm worried about him 'Feyrac', the words fall from his lips before he fully understands why he's saying it. Courfeyrac simply nods as the grip on his shoulder tightens unconsciously; hazel coloured eyes still wide with concern. 'He just… He can't see how…' An unwanted sob catches in his throat and he swallows thickly, swallowing the torrent of emotion that is, once again, threatening to overwhelm him as he tries again. 'He can't see how much he means to us; to all of us and… After everything… I just…' He breaks off as he feels Courfeyrac's hand on his face, caressing his cheek in silent reassurance before the centre pulls him into a tight, capable embrace, a soft kiss dancing over his nose as the soft scent of butter, ink, honey and wet leather enfolding him like a second skin.

'He'll be all right 'Ferre,' the centre's words are muffled through his hair as Combeferre buries his head in the solid security of Courfeyrac's collarbone and desperately tries to bite back the sudden burst of tears that are threatening to overwhelm him. 'We're hurt certainly, we've been broken beyond repair definitely but we will keep together. We have each other Mon Ami; you told me that. They don't have that. We'll get through this, I promise.' Combeferre nods painfully into the fabric of Courfeyrac's jacket; feeling the salty sadness of supressed emotion slice through his cheeks which he does not want to brush away as Courfeyrac pulls him out of the embrace and reaches out a trembling finger to thumb away the salty scars of sadness brimming out of his guides' eyes.

'I am lucky to have a friend such as you I see', he murmurs softly; the words thick with unshed tears as Courfeyrac sweeps another blissfully brief kiss across his temple and gives his hand a quick, reassuring squeeze. Combeferre returns the pressure with as much strength as he can muster; silently relishing in the solid security of Courfeyrac's fingers beneath his own as the centre nods in understanding. For a moment that feels like a lifetime but in reality is only the length of a ragged, tear stained breath; they hold each other's gaze; brown boring into golden hazel, golden hazel boring back into brown and Combeferre realises that the joking dandy is for once; entirely serious and silently thanks him for it.

The sound of pained, unsteady footsteps and the familiar and yet endearing clunk of a cane upon the bare wooden floorboards breaks the moment and peering over Courfeyrac's head, Combeferre feels an unwanted breath hitch in his throat as he sees Enjolras limping towards the pair; pale face contorted in concentration; the fingers of his good hand shivering with exertion as they fight to hold the cane steady. Pride that is marred with a tang of anxiety jumps into Combeferre's throat as he sees that Enjolras is fully dressed; evidently determined to go against his wishes; a pair of loose dark trousers that Cosette had located covering his shattered limbs complete with a white shirt, black cravat draped around his collar and an unbuttoned purple waistcoat that the guide instantly recognizes as Courfeyrac's. Combeferre can't help but feel a watery smile twitch at the corners of his lips as the bright blue eyes filled with a flicker of that age old glacial intensity rise to meet his own as an unspoken question flutters through the silence. '_I knew it. What are you doing out of bed Mon Petit?' _Enjolras simply smiles as the cane shivers slightly between his fingers and smiles his thanks to Courfeyrac who moves quickly to take his arm.

'_I couldn't stand being in that bed a moment longer 'Ferre. You know I couldn't. Please don't be angry…' _The look of almost childlike anxiety that Combeferre is going to send him back to bed dancing through the sapphire orbs makes the smile tugging at the guide's lips widen as he quickly closes the gap between the trio and squeezes his soul mate's shoulder before reaching up to trace the hard, fine lines of his best friends' cheek; relishing the warmth radiating from every pore of alabaster skin. 'I'm not angry 'Jolras', he says quietly, flickering his gaze over to Courfeyrac who grins. 'I'm… I'm just worried… You…' He swallows thickly and Enjolras nods almost imperceptibly; compassionate understanding leaping high within his wide, dark pupils.

'Ten minutes then? Then you can go and see Grantaire,' Courfeyrac's voice is like a candle flickering through the sudden silence as he grips Enjolras' good shoulder and Combeferre can do nothing but nod; because how can he deny his oldest, closest friend, his brother in all but blood this one delight when so much of their old lives have been cruelly ripped away from them? Swallowing his anxieties and trying not to think about Grantaire, he nods in Courfeyrac's direction as they begin the slow progress downstairs and into the warmth and comfort of their new found family.

_**A/N: Please feel free to read and review! Comments, questions, suggestions, constructive criticisms etc are like chocolate to my brain!**_

_**Much love and enjoy x**_


	20. Lights Will Guide You Home

_**A/N: Another chapter for all the amazing people who have given this story a chance and decided to read, review, follow and favourite it! You have no idea how much your continued support means to me and I love you all from the bottom of my heart! **_

_**I am really, really sorry for the lateness of this update but I've been getting ready to go away to University on Sunday and only now have found time to give this story the attention it needs to keep going! Please forgive me and I promise that once packing and Freshers' Week is over, I will try and be a lot more active- promise!**_

_**Disclaimer: As I am not Male, French or living in C19th Paris- how can I possibly own Les Miserables? I am simply trying to convey my love for Les Amis de l'ABC into something cohesive- please don't sue me! The chapter title is taken from 'Fix You' by Coldplay and not surprisingly, I don't own that either! **_

Lights Will Guide You Home

The darkness comes to Grantaire quicker than he initially expected. It dances around his vision, tugs at his fragile psyche, blurs the realms of fact and fiction into a chaotic melee of colours and sounds so quickly that he has no idea where he is or what he is doing. Somehow he finds himself in the library; a large semi-circular room that stinks of antique leather and well aged Port; of roaring fires and games of cards in the squishy moss green chairs with their carved arms and lions' claws, of a learning and intellect that he knows he will never find, nor understand. A huge, twisted labyrinth of learning with large bay windows shrouding the dusky evening with thick, crimson curtains so that splashes of light dance through the heavy, woollen cloth; slashing the room with flashes of fire; although how he got there he doesn't know. Dimly he seems to remember seeing Combeferre leaning over the bannister; watching him with wide, dark eyes huge with compassionate concern that he knows that he does not deserve. Who would want to pity him- the drunken, wine soaked cynic whose only joy in this miserable life was to adore a golden God, a marble angel too precious for the realms of mortal men? Who would care for him now that everything he knows or thought he knew has been cruelly ripped away from him and has left him stranded on the beach of this new, strange reality that he is supposed to understand?

There is a knife clenched in his trembling fist and a fire in his heart and somehow he knows that soon one of the two fire branded forces locked inside his alcohol deprived self will consume the other in a burst of passionate flame and he will be left; a crumbling mess of ash left to fall through the fiery gates of the alcohol soaked darkness and never be thought of again as the blazing rainbow of passionate light and life will soar back to the realms of the angels where it belonged. The icy metallic pressure of the knife digs painfully into the fleshy underside of his wrist; scarring itself against the maze of inky blue veins that criss-cross themselves over the pale skin; although how it got into his hand in the first place; he doesn't know. A bead of blood bubbles as the blade presses firmly down into the skin; a sharp burst of pain blooming from the insertion point, but he ignores it. The sickly saltiness of blood is like nectar to him; filling his shivering, sober frame with what feels like courage; but in reality are more doubts that continue to clamour at him, desperately trying to pull down the walls that he has tried so hard to build and yet still begin to crumble at the slightest touch.

'_Coward', _a voice that sounds suspiciously like Enjolras spits at him from deep within the darkest crevices of his broken mind. A voice that rears up at him in all of its fiery, passionate glory; a furiously burning archangel, one of Heaven's vanguard glaring down at his shivering shade, at the doubts that have encloaked all sense of reason like a second skin, at the knife resting against his wrist, the blood trickling down his skin. The blood that is a tribute, a sacrifice to the one he loved. The one whom he loved and lost to the blazing beauty of the revolution, glaring the muskets down as he stood by the smashed window of their fragile home; radiating the passionate fires of freedom as a tattered scrap of their blood soaked Liberty flag was raised in a marble fist…

'_Worthless, useless coward', _the voice spits again as it fades back into darkest oblivion; the syllables dripping with litres of poisonous dislike and this time he can feel his presence as the knife slashes down against his wrist; barely allowing him to stifle a sudden sobbing cry of pain that is muffled by the curtains and the all consuming silence. He is glad that none of the men; the passionate bringers of truth of light that he has so wanted to be part of are here to see him. Is glad for once that he alone can bear witness to his folly as the knife shivers against his skin and he feels the blazing eyes upon him once again; the ragged, passionate intensity that he has come to love so dearly slowly but surely incinerating all traces of the fragile walls that he has tried to build up around his fragile conscious in order to protect it from any further assault.

'_I'm sorry Apollo; I'm so sorry,' _he finds himself whispering over and over again as he cradles his mutilated wrist in his free hand, two fingers pressing painfully down on the cuts in a futile attempt to staunch the never ending flow of sickingly scarlet blood; trying desperately not to cry out. This is his pain. This self -inflicted agony is his own to bear and he cannot let the others feel it for him. Not when they have been through so much and still survived. Not when they have at last been granted this reprieve from the blood soaked terrors of Paris and the barricade. Not when… The crimson liquid blooms through his fingers despite his efforts to staunch it, pulling his shaking skin into a perverted embrace as it slowly oxidises into a dull throbbing ache as it runs in a river of red through the soft pads of his fingers and drips with painful slowness onto the embroidered Turkish rug on which he has found himself kneeling. The scars continue to leap up at him; taunting his shattered, blood soaked vision; red bleeding painfully into emerald green until he wants to do nothing more than to scream away the pain, banish the images that continue; a month on, to taunt him; dancing in blurs of colour and sound that make no sense through the deepest crevices of his shattered mind.

_Enjolras lying motionless in a sickingly scarlet stream of blood that seeps a final bloody sacrifice to his beloved Patria through the bare wooden floorboards. His golden god, his beautiful, blazing archangel now little more than a cracked marble statue as he feels the weight of the blood soaked curls rising and falling through his trembling hands, the weight of the icy, marble skin beneath his own; void of everything but the icy chill of death. Enjolras standing framed by the broken window as the first faint rays of a stubbornly scarlet dawn seem to catch him; igniting the blood splattered, broken and yet beautiful archangel until he burns with the flames of passionate hope for his beloved Patria; his bright blue eyes now little more than razor sharp shards of glacial glass widening slightly in incomprehension and yet still able to pierce every crevice of his fragile soul as the drunken Pylades trips blindly towards his beloved Orestes; four words that he does not understand falling from lips dry with fear as a hand slick with sweat gropes blindly for the security of another's touch. 'Do you permit it?'_

_Blazingly beautiful Apollo facing down the Python of Delphi as the cool grey light of dawn slowly swept away nights' inky carpet as it crept up over the ridges of Mount Parnassus; the weak light illuminating the golden curls of the angelic youth until he burns with the feverent flames of passion as he gripped his shield emblazoned with the golden insignia of an eagle rampant; watching through icy eyes that flash with a sudden burst of fear as the sleek, black snake slowly slithers out from underneath its rock; slit-like amber eyes glinting menacingly through the darkness as it raises its ugly head, fangs that he knows drip with an incurable poison bared; ready to strike… _

_A sudden, terrified scream that rips through his bloody, barren mouth in a burning flurry of pained realisation. A desperate, anguished scream as he feels his heart thudding painfully through his chest as he struggles to reach the battle; tripping and falling over rocks suddenly slick with shockingly scarlet blood; knowing that he is too late and yet hoping, praying that his brain is deceiving him as he continues to stumble over the never ending barricade of rubble that is suddenly awash with an unknown scarlet sacrifice as his body collapses with a roar of pain filled grief beside the fallen angel; thick, trembling fingers carding themselves uselessly through the matted golden locks now stiff with blood and shit as the fiery light that has been locked up for so long within the icy orbs flickers and fails; guttering pitifully before the candle of hope and light is extinguished for a final time time._

'_Don't leave me Apollo. Please… Please don't leave me…' But the blazingly beautiful eyes are blank, staring blindly up at the cool grey dawn that is flecked with the suns' final bloody salute as he continues to cradle the head of his beloved angel between hands scarred with blood and guilt; desperately trying to ignite the flickering flame of passionate life once more and yet knowing deep down that it is hopeless. Dimly he hears the Python's wounded roar of rage; watches through bloody, tear stained eyes without really seeing or understanding as the great, dark mass of misery and despair rears up above him; the huge amber eyes alive with inhuman hatred as it pounces; allowing the ice cold poison to drip slowly into his steadily breaking body as he desperately tries to keep a firm grip on Enjolras' limp wrist clenched tightly between his fingers as unknown, unwanted hands suddenly enfold him, whispered words of comfort caress him; pulling him away, pulling him back into the oblivious darkness off the unknown and all he knows is that he can't lose him… Not now… Not when… No… _

Something's wrong. Something's wrong but what it is Feuilly cannot tell as he slowly climbs the stairs back up to the second floor landing and the guest bedroom he shares with Courfeyrac, Gavroche and Grantaire; the well thumbed copy of Juliusz Slowacki now complete with his spidery annotations for Gavroche's benefit as well as his own, tucked firmly under his arm. The voices of his friends filter softly up behind him from the fire lit security of the drawing room; Courfeyrac's laugh, the twin alto voices of Gavroche and Georges, Cosette's shimmering, lark like tones, the soft swallow like chirp of Henriette, the combined passion laced between Enjolras and Combeferre as a debate on an unknown subject sparks off between them and M. Fauchelevent, Marius' bumbling blushes as he gazes with moon bright eyes at his soon to be wed fiancé as she perched on the window seat with Gavroche listening to him read whilst Georges sits cross legged at her feet; dark eyes gazing up at the angel who is so like his mother and yet so different, so new, so wonderfully unexpected that he as a nine year old boy with no interest in girls whatsoever; cannot help but watch her like an adoring, wide eyed puppy.

Feuilly cannot help but feel a slight smile flickering across his lips as he silently thanks whoever is listening for allowing their preciously dysfunctional family to find this blissful reprieve from the blood soaked terrors of the barricade and the pain filled confusion of their escape. The barricade. It is hard to believe that nearly four months have passed since those terrifying blood soaked hours; that seemingly endless day in which their whole world had been shattered before their eyes and they were left; the blood soaked, battered, broken survivors to pick up the pieces. To try and piece together the shattered jigsaw of their lives that had left so tiny, insignificant lives floundering in the dark oblivion of nothingness; lives that Fate had only deemed fit enough to snap painfully short by the stab of a bayonet or the crackle of the musket chorus. A sudden slice of blinding pain cleaves itself through Feuilly as he stops without warning; clutching at the bannister for dear life; desperately trying to banish the sudden tirade of memories that flash without warning through his brain. Memories that are still; after all this time painfully red and viciously raw; however much he promises himself that they will heal with time.

_Jehan kneeling on the blood soaked cobblestones; thin, battered body trussed up like an animal being dragged to the slaughterhouse as he yelled his final farewell to a future which he would never see; to the revolution which was already drenched in the shockingly scarlet blood of so many innocents who had given their lives in the futile hope that one day Enjolras' beloved Patria would be able to rise up out of the ashes of the old Bourgeois tyranny. 'Vive la France! Vive l'avenir!' _

_Just a child, a boy of eighteen, the Romantic poet with honey coloured eyes and a voice that could make angels weep as the bayonet smoke consumed him and he was lost forever… Bossuet clutching at his abdomen and reassuring a silently weeping Joly who was desperately trying to remain calm as the blood seeped like water through the soft pads of his shaking fingers. Bossuet with his deep, gravelly voice that had been thick with the stink of iron and the poignant tang of luckless cheer as he had reassured Joly that they would be together soon… Joly who had been caught by a bayonet thrust to the back as he had reached up to call to Combeferre for help and whose dark brown eyes had flickered over to a wounded comrade before the light of life was as easily and as cruelly extinguished as a hand being cupped over a candle. _

Feuilly can feel himself trembling with the weight of suppressed emotion; can taste the unwanted scars of salt pricking painfully in the back of his eyelids as he furiously tries to force the memories of their fallen comrades back; wanting nothing more than to replace them with ones of the laughing smiles that had awaited him at the Musain and the Corinth and which he had come to love so dearly after a hard days work at the factory. Memories of Bahorel's deep, rumbling, utterly infectious laugh booming its' way across the packed café as he swung a snow soaked Gavroche onto his shoulders and piggybacked him over to Enjolras' cluttered table with news from the streets or else started a drunken rendition of La Marseille with Grantaire who was drinking his way steadily through Madame Haucheloup's entire stock of Absinthe whilst absentmindedly toasting 'the great and glorious Apollo' that now seem as if they belong to another life; now shrouded in the scarlet flag of a failed dream fluttering pitifully through the crushing darkness of oblivion.

_Oh Bahorel… Oh Mon Ami…. I am so sorry! The courageous, passionate fighter supporting a semi-conscious Jehan into the haze of amicable anticipation that had gripped the upper floor of the Musain like a vice when the last barricade of the 1830 revolution had finally fallen; his dark eyes alive with worry as they had swept momentarily over his battered band of friends, silently convincing himself that they were safe before guiding Jehan's trembling form to an empty chair and calling in a voice rough with hoarse anxiety for Combeferre or Joly to come and help him with the poet who had sustained a punctured lung and possible concussion. Bahorel who had fought like a lion on the barricade and had run at the National Guard with a roar of pain filled rage as they dragged his beloved poet back behind their walls; only to be felled by a bayonet thrust to the chest; crashing to the cobblestones of Rue St Denis; the passionate Oak choking on his own blood as his final sacrifice to a free France burst from his gaping mouth onto the dusty stone. _

A desperate, pleading cry shatters the dark cloud of bitter memories as Feuilly frantically tries to shove them back into the dark oblivion of his mind. Just then, a ragged, animalistic howl of pain filled grief which can only belong to one man cuts through the fan maker like a knife through cloth; as his brain slowly catches up with his suddenly screaming senses. _Grantaire. No… Not Grantaire… Not now… _Blindly he finds himself walking along the passageway; gripping the bannister and then the walls for support as he forces his legs to keep moving towards the sudden cries that refuse to make any sort of sense to his temporarily jammed mind; willing his brain to be deceiving him even though he knows its' not as he nearly falls into the passageway that leads to the Library overlooking the lake. Every footstep seems to last a lifetime as spirals of dust leap up from under his aching feet; his legs feeling as if they have been plunged into buckets of wet lead as he stumbles towards the half open door and the puddle of dusky, evening light pooling through a high, slashed window in a rainbow of blood soaked gold.

'Grantaire?' His voice seems to be stuck in his throat as he edges closer into the room; one hand still caught around the doorknob; the desperate throbbing of his heart sounding obtrusively loud in the sudden silence as his eyes become adjusted to the gloom; hoping against hope that what he will find is not what he thinks it is and yet knowing that it is futile. 'Grantaire? R, are you in here?' A low, desperate moan muffled through the stench of dust and antique leather confirms his fears as his eyes travel towards the source of the noise; his heart leaping and settling in a disjointed, painful rhythm against his larynx. A hazy pool of shimmering evening light falls through the thick crimson curtains; illuminating a large, dark mass huddled in a corner of the window seat; its' face turned away from Feuilly as it gazes over the sun sinking in a final, blood soaked salute over the shadowy front lawn; falling through a graceful curtsey beyond the dappled light of the lime tree avenue as it disappeared into the violet horizon. Feuilly can feel sweat on the back of his hands; a river of icy sweat erupting over the shaking skin as he edges closer towards the huddled form of the cynic. 'Grantaire, it's me. Feuilly. What's wrong Mon Ami?' The words fall from his lips before he can stop them as a strangled, sobbing howl bursts from the shadowy form as it buries his head in his hands; thick, trembling fingers raking themselves feverishly through the dark thicket of ebony curls, shoulders shaking with the weight of supressed emotion.

It is only then that Feuilly notices the knife. A pen knife that he recognizes from Grantaire's artist materials and used normally for trimming pieces of charcoal, pastel or paint brushes lying almost innocently on the seat against his friends left foot; its' blade glinting in the evening light; shimmering with beads of… _No… No… No Grantaire, not now… Please no…._

It is only then that he sees the crisscrossed pattern scarring the pale underside of the cynic's left wrist, acknowledges the fact that Grantaire is cradling his mutilated arm in his right hand as he rocks backwards and forwards on his heels; his gaze still fixed on the gathering gloom crowding itself outside the window; looking at anything but Feuilly and the knife. Without really understanding what he's doing, Feuilly feels his hands reach almost unconsciously for his necktie which is pressing painfully into his neck; the thick fabric slick with the sweat of later summer heat as it comes away in a waterfall of red gingham; hoping against hope that he is not too late; that Grantaire has more than the prescribed four minutes that Combeferre and Joly had so often warned their friends about before rallies where there were sure to be injured that needed tending to as swiftly as possible. In a moment of panicked desperation he finds himself glancing longingly at the door; wondering whether there is enough time to race back down to the drawing room and fetch Combeferre, Adrienne, M. Frauchlevent, Courfeyrac even; anyone with more knowledge and experience than him. But he knows he can't. Knows inexplicably that he is the one that Grantaire needs as another grief filled howl that makes Feuilly's heart twist painfully in his chest erupts from the broken cynic as he begins to moan words that Feuilly can only just distinguish as he desperately tries to work out what to do.

'_My fault… It's all my fault… Apollo… I'm sorry… I'm so sorry… I should have… I didn't… I couldn't…. Please don't leave me… Please…. I can't… I do believe in you… I do… I tried… Don't leave me… Don't…' _Feuilly can't bear it as he edges closer towards his friend; his necktie balled in a fist of cloth in his shaking, sweat soaked palm as he feels unwanted tears of his own prick painfully in the back of his eyelids which he furiously blinks back. 'Grantaire? Grantaire, please look at me. It's all right.'

Sinking to his knees at the edge of the window seat, he slowly reaches up his free hand to trace the cynic's salt -scarred cheek in a silent, desperate act of reassurance; his fingers cupping themselves around the quivering chin as he remembers with a fresh pang of guilt how Combeferre had done the exact action to him when their whole world, their flame, their blazingly beautiful Phoenix Prince had been shattered into a crumbling heap of marble ash before their eyes. Grantaire's eyes are bloodshot as he turns to the sudden pressure; the pupils alarmingly dilated with what Feuilly can only assume to be the purity of the pain from his slashed wrists as the light of life flickers and gutters within the wide, dark pupils. 'It's all right Cher', Feuilly finds himself whispering again as he reaches tenderly for the cynics' wrist; feeling his accent growing more prominent with every passing syllable as he searches the harsh, dark features now smudged with the charcoal of emotion for any sign of recognition. The blood is beginning to crust as Grantaire's wrist lies hot and heavy within his palm; the older man making no attempt to pull away as he stares down at the scarlet scars now adorning the pale skin already laced with a network of inky blue veins.

'Apollo', he mumbles again; his voice slurred with pain and so faint that Feuilly hardly hears it. 'E… Enjolras… I….' He stammers to a tearstained stop as Feuilly begins to bandage the scars with wordless concentration; his shaking fingers pressing firmly onto the skin to staunch the bleeding; completing the task with a whispered kiss that the cynic knows that he does not deserve as he gazes into the wide, onyx coloured eyes that are brimming with compassionate emotion. Feuilly nods as he grips Grantaire's hands in his and the cynic can feel the ghosts of paint stains rising through the callouses of the fan makers skin, can sense the roughness of the wood as he flattened the whisper-thin paper into shapes fit for the King himself and yet were only deemed worthy enough to be sold on a rain soaked corner of Rue St Denis for a few measly sous; hardly enough to buy bread. The sudden, inexplicable feeling of injustice rises through Grantaire's throat like vomit as he buries his head against Feuilly's chest; desperately trying to stem the sudden overflow of tears that are threatening to overwhelm him once more. 'I'm sorry,' he mumbles into the soft security of Feuilly's chest as the fan maker pulls him into a sudden, clutching embrace; pressing his forehead up against the cynic's thicket of ebony curls in a silent act of reassurance. 'I… I shouldn't be here Feuilly… He doesn't want me here…. The barricades… I tried but I couldn't…' He tries again but Feuilly cuts him off with a sweeping kiss caressing his nose.

'You should 'Taire.' Feuilly can feel the tears in his voice and doesn't bother trying to restrain them but instead lets them fall; relishing in the salty scars of pain that slice his cheeks without restraint. 'We love you. We want you here with us, want you here as one of us; however hard you try and hurt Enjolras' beliefs. You are one of us Mon Ami… Please? ' He swallows and tries to smile; remembering one of Grantaire's many drunken tirades at Enjolras at the Musain as the wine soaked cynic and the blazingly beautiful believer flew at each other with stinging words that struck the heart of even an innocent bystander such as himself who had been trying to read Voltaire by the light of a guttering candle stub and couldn't help but catch a few hurled words before they disappeared into the dark oblivion of nothingness.

'_You are incapable of __believing, of willing, of living and of dying; you do not believe in anything! I believe in you.'_

Grantaire shakes his head and buries his face further into the safety of Feuilly's jacket as the fan maker readjusted his grip on the now blood soaked necktie binding his wrist. 'I… I tried once…' He mumbles, feeling the bitter tendrils of an unwanted memory that he really wishes he could forget rise its' ugly, eager head from the darkness of his mind. Feuilly nods in silent understanding but Grantaire finds that he cannot elaborate; cannot bear to remember the horrors of the events that had circulated his brothers' death at the hands of the criminal gang whilst handing out food to the local gamin population; cannot bear to remember the guilt ridden grief that had almost torn his beloved family apart as Adrienne had drawn him close; desperately trying to share her grief with a body numb with shock as he had cradled the blood soaked halo of golden curls in his lap; wanting nothing more than to join his beloved Apollo, his gloriously golden Achilles in the sweet, suffocating darkness of oblivion.

'I know', Feuilly's voice is little more than a whisper in the gathering gloom as he tightens his hold on Grantaire's shivering form; one hand slowly reaching up to trace the line of the broken cynic's cheek. 'My Matka…Mother died when I was twelve. I know R. I've seen it... I...' He swallows and pushes his forehead against Grantaire's as the thicket of ebony curls buries itself against his chest. 'Pneumonia.' He stops; listening to the tear stained silence; desperately trying to banish the sudden howling ghosts of the attic bedroom where his beloved Mother had coughed and choked; too poor to pay for a doctor who would have sent him away anyway with ringing ears into the howling abyss of snow, her phlegm flecked with scarlet drops of blood as the Warsaw wind howled and chased itself through the silently icy streets and the frost glimmered on the frozen window frame. He remembers the cold more than anything about that night; more than the look of dark eyed desperation leaping and guttering in his Matka's pupils as she had beckoned him closer; his thin knees trembling in the winds' vice like grip whipping itself around his bare, stick thin limbs as he had edged towards the large iron bedstead with its thin mattress and pitiful collection of raggedy blankets all pulled up around his Mothers' emaciated frame in a desperate desire for a warmth that would never come. Remembers how its' frigid chill had crept up on him, caressed him, pulled him into a hard, inescapable embrace as it plunged itself into his heart; forcing him to watch and listen to the throaty cough of her death rattle as the choking coughs continued to throttle her emaciated frame; his name the last thing fluttering through the beautiful ice blue lips, her thin, artistic fingers now wasted away by cold and hunger scrabbling pitifully at the coverlet…. '_Dawid… __Kochanie__ ...' _

He can taste salt on his face. Scars of salt that he does not have the strength to brush away as he buries his head in Grantaire's chest; the hold on the cynic's bleeding wrist loosening as the broken drunkard silently pulls him closer as the sobs come; their tears mingling as they continue to cling to each other in the gathering gloom; refusing to let the other go. 'I'm sorry'. He doesn't know whose lips the words fall from as he buries his head deeper into Grantaire's chest, relishing in the steady, throbbing iambs of the cynic's heart straining through his shirt. It doesn't matter that Grantaire is lost and broken and probably verging on the catatonic as his sobs for Enjolras, for his beautiful Phoenix prince and for acceptance slowly hiccough themselves into a thick, tearstained silence. It doesn't matter that he can dimly distinguish Combeferre's voice that is rough with urgent panic floating up the stairs and along the passageway or Enjolras' clunking, limping gait as he hobbles after his first and best lieutenant, the infernal cane shivering between nerveless fingers.

It doesn't even matter that he has blood smeared over his palms; blood that is slowly crusting itself into a thick, dark stain from the necktie and the residue bleeding from Grantaire's wounds. What matters is that they are together; their tattered souls that they thought they had left clinging to the pitiful remnants of the broken barricade slowly beginning to knit together again and for that Feuilly is grateful. Is grateful because he knows that the fact that this preciously dysfunctional family is together once more fills his shattered heart with more light and hope than he can put into coherent words as he hears the creak of the door being pushed open and Combeferre's voice soft and yet choked with anxiety calling in from the passageway as he beckons the guide into his embrace and feels Grantaire sniffle his approval into the security of the tearstained fabric of his jacket as the guide drops to his knees and buries his head into the fan maker's chest; relishing in the tear stained warmth and comfort of togetherness.

'Feuilly? Grantaire? Oh Mes Amis….'

_**A/N: Please feel free to read and review! Comments, suggestions, questions, constructive criticisms etc are like chocolate to my brain and will keep me motivated through the mammoth task that is packing for Halls! **_

_**Much love and enjoy x**_

_**Note on text**_

_**'Matka' = Mother (Polish)**_

_**'Kochanie' = My darling (Polish)**_

_**Blame Google Translate if that's wrong! **_


	21. Phantom Faces At The Window

_**A/N: I'M ALIVE! I have officially survived my first two weeks at University! Oh my poor, wonderfully dedicated readers who have steadfastly stuck by this and all my over works; how can I ever repay you? Words cannot express how deeply sorry I am for not updating this sooner but this chapter has been impossibly hard to write and what with Freshers' Week and then lectures starting; I have had a distinct lack of time to even think about this story- let alone write it! **_

_**So, as a present to all you wonderful people who I love so dearly (especially Sarahbob and Rainwillmaketheflowersgrow!) here is some pure Muschietta for your consideration :)**_

_**Disclaimer**_**_: As I am not Male, French or living in C19th Paris; how can I possibly own Les Miserables? I am simply trying to convey my love for Victor Hugo's wonderful characters' into something cohesive- please don't sue me! _**

**_Much love and enjoy x_**

Phantom Faces At The Window 

A clear, pink flecked dawn is just beginning to slowly creep its way up into a sky still smudged by nights inky carpet as the fiacre rumbles its way towards the wrought iron gates that bar the red brick house with its' large bay windows and forest green doors from the prying eyes of intruders. The crunch of the wheels on the gravel combined with the snorting stamp of the lone horse that is straining for a freedom that will never be granted willingly startles a pair of nesting turtle dove; who take flight from their perch in a flurry of dusky pink and grey from atop the gate post; their soft melody mingling with the faint, echoing clamour that can be heard from within. A pale, heart shaped face with wide, amber coloured eyes; eyes that are liquid pools of unshed, unspoken emotion that is desperately trying to burst through each finely worked strand of honey coloured brilliance gazes without really seeing at the scene as a stray finger reaches almost unconsciously up to grip the icy security of the tarnished locket that still lies against the pit of her larynx. The finger shivers slightly as it traces the faded insignia etched forever on the metal casing as an unwanted sob rises and dies in her throat as the visions of the boys; the brothers whom she had loved and lost swim in a sudden disjointed puddle of memories before her eyes before she can stop them; before she can understand why; four months on, they still manage to do this to her.

_Joly stumbling into the cramped hallway of their shared apartment; his thin, darkly handsome face flushed pink with cold as he unwound the red scarf that encloaked his neck; blowing on numb fingers in a desperate attempt to warm them as she took his coat; relishing in the flickering warmth still radiating from the fabric as he enfolded her into his arms and kissed her nose. 'Mon Amour,' he whispered as he kissed her full on the lips; a long, languid kiss that smelt of snow and flour, of medicine, of a warmth and love that since that heart breaking June morning when she awoke to find the large bed that the three of them shared in a chaotic tangle of limbs and blankets jarringly empty and the apartment an echoing hall of shadows and knew that what she had feared and prayed would never happen; had been played by Fate; she has never reclaimed entirely. _

_Joly reading one of his medical journals sitting curled up on the window seat by the guttering light of a candle stub perched perilously on the windowsill; the flame flickering pitifully against the cold, slashed glass; every so often casting anxious glances at the snow blanketed street below as Bossuet sat at the cluttered kitchen table surrounded by a chaotic melee of nuts and bolts and crumpled paper instructions; worn thin from countless fingers caressing the flattened wood pulp as he tried to build his model ship. Bossuet with his loud, gravelly laugh as he had batted away Joly's concerned touches and fretful gazes when he had burnt himself trying to make toast by a roaring fire as they had snuggled on the sofa; their bodies cocooned in a mess of blankets and rugs as they gazed into the flickering, dying embers of the fire; watching the sparks leap and laugh into the darkness of oblivion; casting black shadows against the chimney piece as she draped her arm around Joly's shoulder and felt the steady, throbbing iambs of Joly's heart pressed up against her other side as he pulled his beloved water stained, dog eared, first edition of Pasteur and settled down to read as they silently relished in the warmth and comfort of their friendship. _

An unwanted, choking sob rises through her throat; straining against her lips as she swallows convulsively; her fingers closing around the icy metal as they lightly trace the faded insignia of the eagle rampant; wishing that this wasn't so. Wishing that they were here with her; her boys, her lovers who had been like brothers to her; pulling her up from the depths of Paris's dark underworld and showing her a light and companionship that she had never experienced before; pulling her forcefully into this wonderful, dysfunctional family of eager minds and fire branded souls; all set out to release Enjolras' beloved Patria from the tyrannical hands of the Bourgeois and watch her fly with fire stained, blood splattered wings into the bright, white land of peaceful freedom. But they are not. They are dead; blank faced corpses separated by a jolting five day carriage journey over bad roads and a stretch of choppy, indigo water; their sweet, scarlet sacrifice to the beloved Revolution, to the new world free from the tyranny of the Bourgeois remembered only by the dusty cobblestones of Rue St Denis that had soaked up their sickeningly scarlet blood without complaint.

'_Chérie M. _

'_Nous vous aimons avec nos deux cœurs,_

_Ne nous oubliez pas,_

_Votre Aigles,_

_B et J.'_

The words seem to echo eerily her head; distant reminders of a life now shrouded in a dark oblivion of painful memories as she draws out the crumpled newspaper cutting that had been thrust into her hand in a moment of wild abandon by a soul just as lost as her. A traveller with blood on his hands and a flickering, dying fire in his soul and somehow; she doesn't know how, she had felt compelled to trust him. Had felt almost duty bound by some great, inexplicable force to trust and follow this dark eyed, haunted stranger as blindly as a lost sheep following its shepherd as she had taken the newspaper cutting from his shivering grip and tried to understand what she was reading. _Because how could they be alive? How? Why had Fate deemed it fit to spare their lives when so many other tiny, insignificant threads had been snapped cruelly short by her cruel sheers and left to lie as marionettes adorning a broken relic of a failed dream? When her very reasons for existing had been snatched away from her by the thrust of a bayonet and a spurt of sickeningly scarlet blood? Oh my boys… Oh my poor, poor boys… What wouldn't I give to see you whole and pure again?_

Another sudden, unwanted sob rises through her throat which she quickly stifles by dragging out a handkerchief from the depths of her cloak; desperately trying to banish the sudden tirade of images fighting to make themselves known to her exhausted brain. _ And yet…. _She glances back down at the faded print once more; allowing the words to leap up at her, claw at her psyche, silently relishing in the fact that they threaten to drag her under into their dark abyss as she scans the page; searching, desperately trying to find some meaning in these words that still refuse to make any sort of sense. _'Grievously injured… Leader… Insurgents… 10,000 franc reward for capture and return… Paris… Dead or Alive… Any information… Parisian Prefect of Police… Inspector Javert…_

The paper crumples suddenly within her hand; the faded words that still refuse to make any sort of sense spieling in long, black threads of ink before her exhausted eyes as she gazes without really seeing out of the fiacre window; taking in the wrought iron gates, the gravel yard, the vaguely familiar boy sitting on the doorstep surrounded by a chipped, red wheelbarrow full to the brim with what she thinks is horse brasses; his actions being watched by the lazy, amber eyes of a sunbathing tortoiseshell cat and a bucket full of soapsuds as her hand unconsciously reaches for the doorknob; her trembling fingers relishing in the icy weight of metal rising through the shaking skin. From deep within the darkest crevices of her mind she hears the faint echoes of a song throbbing through her brain; a high, sweet alto voice dancing through a stuffily oppressive June dawn; spiralling through the bloody tendrils that had splashed themselves across the sky as the laughing body danced and sang across the barricade. She doesn't know why or how she knows the lyrics as they filter through her brain, but they come despite her futile efforts; the syllables as soft and as reassuring as dreams in their remembrance of a time and a place which she knows that she will never truly forget; however hard she tries.

'_Joie est mon caractère… C'est la faute à Voltaire… Misère est mon trousseau … C'est la faute à Rousseau….'_

The faded image of a small boy with a mop of dark blonde hair and bright, blue-grey eyes alive with the passionate flame of life dressed in a navy jacket that was two sizes too big for him, crumpled white shirt and dark trousers with a tattered cockade pinned to the lapel of his jacket dancing through the grapeshot; utterly oblivious to the desperate, pleading shouts of his friends watching in silent, wide eyed horror from the safety behind barricade or silent, deadly carpet of used cartridges lying abandoned by his feet as he continued on his errand swims before her eyes as she sees the dark green door open and a face pop itself around the chipped wood. A face with a mop of ebony curls and a smiling mouth alive with laughter; a face with wide, hazel eyes the colour of a dying sunset… A face that speaks of candlelight evenings spent basking in the warmth and comfort of togetherness as Enjolras; gloriously golden Enjolras had enthralled them all with his dreams to free his beloved Patria from the tyrannical hands of the Bourgeois; dreams that spoke of a distant, blissful, utterly evanescent time in which all were equal; all could walk in the bright, white land of peaceful Freedom together. A sudden, flickering, guttering memory flares into life within the dark crevices of her brain and she clings to it with all her fragile soul; a tantalizing silver thread of memory that she thought in all the pain and heartbreak of losing the men she had thought of as brothers; she had forgotten.

_A dark, candlelit room that stank of the heady atmosphere of fraternal companionship, sweat and sweat. Flickering candlelight throwing huge shadows over walls awash with maps of France, of Paris, of Rue St Michel… The comforting weight of Joly's arm beneath her fingers as he led her into his laughing, smiling band of revolutionary dreamers; his wide, dark eyes alive with laughter as he threw a joke over to Grantaire who was clutching a half empty bottle of Absinthe in one hand and toasting the ' great and glorious Revolution' in a ringing, drink slurred voice that dripped sarcasm as his emerald eyes bore into the glacial baths of icy intensity that were silently glaring at him from across the table as Enjolras leant over a tattered map of Paris with Combeferre and Feuilly at his side; dark eyes alive with an almost feverish anticipation as they hung on his every word; silently drinking up their beloved, fiery leader in all his glory; his mouth a thin, tight line as he listened intently to Gavroche's report of the latest dissenting voices whispering through the local gamin population on the slums of Saint Michel._

_The faint scratching scribble of a pen nib on a scrap of fraying parchment as Jehan raised his head; wide, honeyed coloured eyes widening in surprise and then sparkling with happiness as he threw down his pen and clapped his hands in welcome; drawing up a spare barstool that Bahorel had been using as a footrest and roughly shoving the softly snoring fighter awake with a disgruntled grunt and throwing the poet a sleepy, half heated punch on the shoulder for even daring to try and wake him up. _

_Bossuet... Where was Bossuet? Her beloved eagle with the wide, sparkling eyes; his mouth always breaking into a laughing smile despite the fact that Fate had somehow deemed it fit for Lady Luck to always turn her hand against his; stumbling in from the cold, harsh twilight; his hat lost, his face pink with cold as he crossed the room in two firm strides, just missing the leg of a coffee table and enveloping her into a warm embrace. '__Oh ma petite colombe',__ he had whispered; a lone finger reaching up to twirl itself around a stray tendril of hair that had fought its way out of her pins as he kissed her gently on the nose and smiled his thanks to Joly who had beamed back in response and bent down to whisper something in her ear. An unknown whisper now lost in the dark oblivion of eternity that had made her laugh…._

Her heart twists painfully in her chest as she remembers that Bossuet's nickname for her had been 'petite colombe' or 'little dove'; a term that once he had started using had been adopted by all the Amis and a sudden, desperate, excruciatingly painful urge floods through her being; an urge, a longing to go back to that unknown winter night; to find the boys whom she had begun to think of as brothers and tell them; each of them, all of them, how much they meant to her. To cocoon them all in the soft, warm blanket of fraternal friendship and hold them close, never for a moment thinking about letting them go as she feels sudden, unbidden tears of salty sadness prick painfully in the back of her eyelids and she lets them fall. She doesn't have the strength to even think about brushing them away but allows their briny pain to slice her cheeks; seeing tear as a tribute, an atonement to the boys, the family she had loved so dearly and had been lost to her so suddenly; as if their gloriously, fiery lives that had been so full of bright, hopeful potential had meant nothing, had been meant for nothing except to be played piece by painful piece on the constantly changing board that held the Game of Life.

Why? Why was life so bitterly unfair? Without warning, she remembers the song of the women as they knelt on the blood soaked cobbles of Rue St Denis; their sleeves rolled up, their buckets waiting with gallons of soapy water; scrubbing frantically at the crusted stains left by the foolhardy martyrs who had dared to dream of bringing their beloved country into a new, brighter future. She remembers too the silent echoes of the barricade ringing in her ears as she knelt there; desperately trying not to look at the scarlet splatters adorning the stones as she relished in the fluid mechanical quality of her movements, relished in the weight of the brush, of the burning pain in her palms as she scrubbed furiously; desperately trying to remember, trying not to forget as the elegy rose like a skylark through the cool, grey dawn. '_Did you see them going off to fight? Children of the barricade that didn't last the night! They were schoolboys, never held a gun! Fighting for a new world that would rise up like the sun! Where's that new world now the fighting's done?' _

_Where were those women now? Had they too lost loved ones on the barricades that had risen like great mounds of freedom pointing to the bright, white, hopeful land of tomorrow? Did they sit as she sat every night in the hard backed chair by her tiny garret window after her shift had ended and watch the city slowly unravel itself under an invisibility cloak of inky blue velvet studded with silver stars and wait for a painfully familiar knock? For the sound of footsteps on the stairs? For a wonderfully familiar voice to echo from the hallway and allow herself to breathe again in the knowledge that they were home safely?_

She doesn't know. She had fled Paris so suddenly after the barricade fell; after the news that her two best beloved boys had been felled with as much care as a farmer sheathing a field of wheat at harvest time had been brought to her by a freckled, gangly lad with wide, blue eyes and a snub nose who claimed to know Gavroche and her whole world, all the walls that she had so carefully built up around her fragile conscious had been shattered so completely; fleeing like a wanted criminal in the dead of night from the painful blockade of memories that still threaten to overwhelm her that she hadn't given the women of Paris, of St Michel and St Denis a second thought.

Without warning she feels the newspaper cutting crumple in her hands; the thin, flattened wood pulp tearing in a serrated slice as she allows the pieces to fall in a fluttering waterfall of ink and paper to the floor and crushes them with the heel of her shoe. She doesn't need them now; she knows that much as she rubs her exhausted, tear stained eyes with the heels of her hands and draws the ragged corners of her tattered, brightly coloured shawl tighter around her shivering shoulders as her fingers flutter over the cold, comforting security of the locket still lying against her larynx_. _

_She can feel her fingers trembling slightly as they dance over the faded insignia; remembering with a fresh pang of grief the warm dexterity of Joly's fingers as he had closed the clasp against her skin; the delicious heat of his lips against the back of her neck as they had brushed the lightly freckled skin; his dark eyes wide with passionate adoration in the guttering candlelight of the sitting room cum study. She remembers the heat of his dark eyed gaze on the back of her neck as he allowed his lips to kiss the top of her spine; his long, artistic fingers puzzling over the bumps and ridges of the jagged vertebrae as she had leant into him; her whole being buzzing with a sudden, electrifying agony of desire. 'I love you', he had whispered into her hair; allowing one finger to curl itself around a stray tendril of hair as his lips caressed the taught tendons of her neck as she raised her face to his; drinking in the dark eyed adoration sparkling within each finely woven strand of autumnal brilliance. Adoration that had been marred by a minuscule and yet poignantly tangible pang of unease as he had pulled her closer against him and she had laid her head on his chest; relishing in the steady, throbbing iambs of his heart straining through the thin linen on his shirt. 'I love you so much Ma Petite Ange. Please don't ever forget that.' And she had smiled into his chest; reaching up a hand to caress his cheek as she had silently drunk up the snow soaked warmth radiating from every pore of lightly freckled skin; wishing that this moment of perfect, candlelit bliss could last forever. Wishing that she could remain here; safe and whole; protected by the soft securities of his embrace, that he would never leave her and that they would remain united with Bossuet and the rest of the wonderfully dysfunctional family that was Les Amis de l'ABC in this wonderfully chaotic family of friendship that somehow, they had managed to create._

She could almost laugh at the irony of her innocence as she finds herself on her feet with no recollection of having truly moved. _What a fool she was! What a pretty little fool to really believe that the blissful idyll she had created could actually become a reality!_ She would laugh; if she could find the strength to; laugh away the clawing, nagging feelings of guilt and grief that continue to claw at her, threaten to drag her under; despite her futile efforts to stay afloat. Her hands scrabble for the cold security of the door knob once more and she forces her weight against it; one hand still clenched tightly around the locket as she hears the hinges groan in audible protest as they finally creak open onto the soft, hushed light of early morning. For a moment that feels like a lifetime, but in reality is simply the length of one ragged, tearstained breath she stands there on the fiacre steps; her body frozen in time as she gazes at the wrought iron gates that bar her path; at the chipped, wooden door beyond where the cat now lies alone; luxuriously basking in its' own silent accomplishment of having got rid of the boys' idle prattle; at the discarded wheelbarrow, at the open window which she hadn't noticed in the stuffy confines of the fiacre where now she can hear the faint, floating melody of an unknown song filtering through the cool, morning air.

The weight of the locket feels oddly alien in her palm; the icy, metallic symmetry pressing painfully into her skin as she rises it to her lips and allows herself to brush a sweeping, whispered kiss across the insignia; hoping against hope that she is doing the right thing. That she will be able; finally; to find the blissful sense of closure that her weeping, shattered heart so desperately desires and that has been impossible to find.

Closing her eyes for a fraction of a second, she rummages in her purse for a fiacre fare; relishing in the cold, comforting roundness of the few English pennies that rise to her trembling fingertips and tries to steady herself; hoping that she will be able to pacify the inner turmoil; those silently raging monsters of guilt and grief that still continue to claw at her fragile psyche and that she will be able to find the answers that now, four months on; she so desperately craves.

_**A/N: Please feel free to read and review! Comments, questions, suggestions, constructive criticisms etc are like chocolate to my brain! Much love and enjoy x**_

_**Note on text**_

_**'**__Joie est mon caractère… C'est la faute à Voltaire… Misère est mon trousseau … C'est la faute à Rousseau….' = 'I have a cheerful character... It's Voltaire's _**_faut... Misery is my bridal gown... It's Rousseau's fault'_**


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